Utopia
by Takma'rierah
Summary: Five years after X-Men: First Class. Erik managed to take over the world and kill off most of humanity, but mutant utopia has yet to materialize. Charles is his reluctant companion. Eventual Erik/Charles, dubcon. Dark!
1. Chapter 1

For another 1stclass_kink LJ prompt, this time asking for something where Erik managed to take over the world, keeping a captured Charles in a remote safe house until everything was over and then bringing him back to his side. The prompt called for Erik to declare Charles his consort, but I didn't quite go that direction; instead it's more of a psychological study, I suppose, with unrequited love and lots of uneasy suspense.

**Warnings include**:

-Eventual dubcon (one-sided Erik/Charles)

-Emotional manipulation

-Dark themes

_Additional A/N:_ I'm now in the process of editing earlier scenes. Don't mind me. It's just that my writing's changed so much since then, so it's been bothering me that _this_ is the first thing people see.

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**i.**

_Nuclear war might almost have been better,_ Charles thought at times. Not, of course, that reality could be much worse—but it seemed as if the bright and glorious implosion of a two-stage bomb would have at the very least been _faster_.

He watched the world turn through a television set; through newspapers and gossip. The sky above was tinted faintly green with smoke wafting away from another part of the globe, and he was told that the water had to be treated for sulfuric acid before they gave it to him.

That winter it had snowed extraordinarily, and Charles didn't eat fresh food for two weeks because no one could reach the valley. It had never snowed that much in the mountains outside of Chilliwack before; not in anyone's lifetime.

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**ii.**

"I'd like to see Erik," Charles stated that morning. He always said that, every morning, when Lila came to bring him the paper and breakfast. The food was predictably, reliably lukewarm by the time it reached him; his house lacked a kitchen.

"Sorry," Lila pouted. For all Charles knew, she was being sincere. "I don't have that kind of authority. But—" she paused, and smiled as if she'd had an epiphany— "I'll ask my supervisor."

She was old and pretty beneath her burnished helmet.

Charles was used to being unable to hear anyone's thoughts by now. Occasionally, someone would hike through the grounds; more and more as the world outside grew worse and refugees sought out the hidden parts of the country; less as the winters grew colder and the refugees fewer.

The first year he had drawn them to him like a piper, all boldness and flair.

He stopped after the first few times he had experienced, vicariously, what it felt like to be shot in the chest.

He would have stopped sooner, but then he stopped hearing about his students over the television. It was a long time before he admitted to himself that the two things were related.

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**iii.**

The valley stretched out before him, glacier-carved and vibrant green. The fall storms brought rain and fog; not the violent storms he was used to, but a constant heavy ache of rain. Today, however, Charles could see green; could see the mountain slopes laid out in their entirety.

The window was huge; seamless glass from floor to ceiling. Erik had really spared no expense. Even the house itself—almost a manor, really—_sprawled_, curving up floor by floor. Charles could reach all of it, or at least the parts of it that weren't walled off, even in his chair.

It was a cold hospitality, despite the warmth of the fires in their cages. It was an exhibit, although the audience was within.

"Excellent news, Charles!" Lila said in greeting, carrying a tray of real bacon and eggs—something Charles had never lacked enough to miss, although he knew from the television that these things were more precious than gold, which could not be eaten. Lila looked older than she used to, and she had confessed once that she'd lost a niece and a cousin in the years since meeting Charles.

"And what is that, my dear?" Charles replied, turning away from the window. He dropped a hand down to the rim of a wheel, ready to turn in full; a life spent as a telepath made him a poor guesser, at times, but over time he'd grown better at reading the staff's obscured faces. This was something important; not another victory for the Brotherhood, which they knew brought him no joy, but something he might genuinely like.

"You're being moved," Lila told him, setting the tray down at the table. "To New York."

To New York.

_To Erik._

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**iv.**

They belted his chair to the floor and walls of the plane. Charles, for his part, found himself strapped down to the chair. This made it difficult to look out the window, but if he craned his head just right he could see.

On the initial flight out to British Columbia, surrounded by mutants armed with nothing more than their genetics, Charles had been certain that it would not be long before one of them made a mistake; before he could manage to slip the stifling metal from his head and turn them to his aid. Back then, Charles had glared sullenly out the window and bided his time by watching the neat green circles and squares of fields pass below.

Now most of what he saw down there, where the earth was not already scarred black with ash, was an unbroken, unhealthy brown.

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**v.**

"Erik," Charles breathed. His old friend was still recognizable; he still looked the same, still with that flowing cape and ridiculous red and purple helmet, but there was something grown tired in his face, in the lines of his eyes and around the creases of his nose. Even the edges of his cape were grayed, though it could not have been the same garment. For a moment, Charles felt an urge to help Erik; to make him smile again, genuinely, as he had once.

The feeling was short-lived. Charles knew well enough who had led the destruction of the world, and his inclination toward goodwill faltered in the face of that knowledge.

"Magneto, now," Erik corrected gently, crooking his mouth in an attempt at a smile. He stood at the top of a short flight of stairs, in what was almost the entryway of a palace. Charles suspected that Erik had chosen it—or, perhaps, had it built—simply to be larger than his own family's manor. It was echoingly large, and the guards wore molded silver helmets. For all of its grandiosity, however, it seemed remarkably barren. There were no decorations; no framed paintings or rare antique vases.

"You've seen what I've made of the world," Erik continued. "It's all ours now, Charles."

"You're very thorough," Charles acknowledged. "There's hardly any of it left untouched."

Erik's teeth showed. "Thank you," he said. "Of course, it will be rough for the first several years. It always is at the beginning of something new."

"Or at the end of something grand," Charles said.

Frowning, Erik twitched the edge of his cape at his heels. "You only say that now because you haven't seen the world we'll build next."

"I don't need to see it to know that it will have been built out of extinction," Charles said. He was almost—_almost_—glad that he couldn't stand; better to sit disobediently slouched than to pace and fidget, stood before the new world's emperor like a vassal.

"Extinction has always led to adaptive radiation," Erik reminded him, stepping down the first of the stairs. His hard boot soles—expensive, polished, but no doubt utterly functional—rang dull on the granite. "You know that."

"That said, no one sane would wish for a meteorite," Charles reasoned, "Or, for that matter, a few hundred thousand square kilometers of molten rock. I've sat and watched your world unfold for four years now. Forced human labor, Erik? Really? Haven't we seen this kind of thing before, my friend?"

Erik tipped his head down, hiding the flush of his face in shadow, and he took the last few steps all in a rush. "We needed to do something with the resistance, and we needed food. Crops don't grow themselves, Charles; roads don't build themselves."

"This isn't the way to do it," Charles explained sadly, looking up at Erik as he came to loom above the chair. "This isn't the person you were meant to be."

Erik hesitated; his lips parted, and then slowly met each other again. "Then join me," he offered, finally.

"Excuse me?" Charles asked, squinting at him.

"I need people like you on my side," Erik said, and for a moment he almost looked haunted. "It's true that some of this has… Gotten slightly out of hand. Some of the others, my generals and allies, don't see anything wrong with our current course. We could use a counter opinion. Someone respectable, educated; well-known."

"I think you may be beyond my help, Erik," Charles stated. "Send me back to Canada and stop pretending that the end justifies the means." He settled a hand onto the wheel of his chair to swivel around and move away, but Erik's hand caught his wrist.

"I need you, Charles," Erik said. "I need an idealist. I need someone who can stand with me; who can stand up to me." He turned Charles' wrist over to expose the delicate veins, stark blue beneath sun-starved skin, and traced them delicately with the tip of his thumb. "I'm trying to build a utopia, but to do that I need someone who can still imagine one."

Charles pulled his wrist back gently, extricating himself from Erik's pliant fingers. "It's going to be hard for me to stand anywhere at all with you, given the circumstances." It was meant to hurt, and Charles could see that it did, but Erik's pained expression was backed by resolve.

"I can fix that, Charles," he insisted, eyes glinting with a mad urgency. "I thought of that. For the past several years, ever since I… Since you had your accident, I've been recruiting scientists. You've seen their work."

Charles laughed darkly. He had read the papers, yes, on such wildly variable subjects as genetic therapy, cloning, immortal strains of cancer, and morulas. The names had all been blacked out, and the methods of research were at times suspiciously vague. "Yes, I can think of certain German researchers in years past who would be proud."

Erik scowled. "We've done hardly any human testing," he insisted, "let alone mutant testing. The point is, we've come up with something I think will work. At the very least, it can't hurt you." He was still standing very close, and Charles could have reached into his jacket pocket for him as Erik pulled out a small syringe. It was partially filled with a translucent fluid, tinted a delicate, agarose blue, and the needle was worryingly long and stiff.

Charles eyed it warily. "What is that, Erik?"

"Remember the tests we ran with embryonic stem cells in mice?" Erik asked, pulling out a vial of iodine and a large cotton swab from the other pocket. In order to do so he'd set the syringe down on Charles' knee. Charles couldn't feel it, of course, but all the same it seemed like a dreadful weight, and he narrowed his eyes at it.

He _did_ remember the mice, though; pitiful things, dragging their hind legs after crooked backs. It had reminded Charles too much of his own body, but he'd forced himself to read the literature anyway. "Of course. Injection into the spinal column restored partial movement, but only uncoordinated twitching. Interesting, but hardly a miracle cure."

"That was an old test," Erik replied; this close, he seemed almost to _thrum_ with pride as he stripped off the wrapping of the cotton swab. He dipped the soft tip of it down into the brown iodine bottle, and let it soak. "I wanted it to be a surprise. Since then we've done tests with a microfilament scaffolding, designed to conform to the shape of the spine upon injection; the cells migrate along it and use the scaffold as a pattern to grow along. It's taken time, but we think we've perfected it."

_And by 'we,' you mean your scientists,_ Charles corrected in his mind. A chill passed down his spine and stopped partway down. "Who did you test this on, Erik?" he asked, watching as Erik lifted the syringe with his mind, dangling it out of the way by the still-capped needle. Charles' fingers squeezed into the armrests of their own volition.

Erik didn't reply; at least, not to Charles' question. "It will take time to heal, but someday you'll walk again. Then we can be who we were to each other again."

Charles hardly had time to wonder what, exactly, he'd meant by _that_ before Erik shoved him down with a hand on the back of his neck. Head trapped between his knees, Charles strained and pulled at the armrests but could not right himself when he felt Erik tug up the back of his shirt. The air was cold on his skin, and Erik's hand was all the more warm for that as it brushed over the part of his back that could only half-feel the touch.

"Be calm, Charles," Erik murmured, which did not stop Charles from trying to jerk away when the warmth of Erik's hand was replaced by the bracing smear of the iodine. A moment later the sharp chemical smell reached his nose, and Charles' heart shrank in his chest as he _waited_, staring down at the tips of his new-shined shoes with wide eyes.

The needle bit into his spine, and _this_ Charles could feel. It felt every bit as wide as it had looked, and as he sucked in shocked air it seemed as if it were never-ending, as if it would keep going on and on, straight through into the meat of him—but then there was a popping sensation, and something _else_ that Charles could never have described to anyone.

"Don't move," Erik said to his ear, gentle in a way Charles wanted nothing to do with. "Don't move yet. Give it time to settle."

Charles knew what he risked if he moved, and it was more than just the loss of some miraculous cure—so he stared down through the rungs of the chair at the granite floor, straining to feel the creep of the foreign cells along his tangled neurons; sure, somehow, that in the echoing silence of Erik's empty mansion, he could hear them.

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	2. Chapter 2

Thank you all so much for your reviews! I am turning into a review-junkie. Seriously. Checking my email _constantly_.

ETA: Oops, no wonder this seemed so short! I only uploaded half of it the first time, since I have kind of a different update schedule on LJ. :o

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**vi.**

The stairs were an efficient cage; unless, of course, Charles was willing to fall down them in his pursuit of freedom. Although, if Erik's unsolicited cure actually _worked_—provided he hadn't installed additional safeguards by then—Charles would simply be able to walk out. So far, however, he had gained only a deep and abiding ache at the base of his skull.

The rooms Erik took him to, chair moving almost gracefully under the man's power, were embarrassingly lush and had clearly been prepared for Charles well in advance. There were no carpets to foul his wheels, no shelves too high for him to reach, and plenty of books and softly glowing lamps. There was more than one room, and Erik took him around to see them eagerly. It practically _smelled_ of Erik's fussing.

It did not escape Charles' attention that there was a rail along the edge of the bed so that he could pull himself in, and similar fittings in the washroom; he also noticed that Erik did not comment on them, and that his eyes in fact glanced past them deliberately. Still, he was glad for their presence, and while Charles was not a religious man, he paused—as he did daily—to thank any god that might be listening that he could still control his bodily functions.

Finally Erik brought him back to the sitting room, parking Charles by a dark leather couch that Erik sank into with evident contentment. He raised his hand and summoned a metal box tethered to a thick cord, directing it to Charles' hands.

The telepath caught it and turned it over; there was a single large, black button on one side. The whole affair was rather inelegant, and didn't really fit with the rest of the room. "What is it?" Charles asked obligingly, keeping his fingers well clear of the button.

A small, tight smile squeezed in between the edges of Erik's helmet. "It's a surprise. Nothing all that extravagant, just a… Small token of my trust, and perhaps a promise as well."

Now Charles really didn't want to press the button. He didn't need a new luxury to pile on top of all the others.

Erik didn't _quite_ roll his eyes, but he leaned forward, slid his hand between Charles', and depressed the black rubber himself. "Really, Charles; you're becoming paranoid. It's just a little thing." Then he reclined back into the cushions again, watching Charles with expectant satisfaction as the telepath sat awkwardly with the heavy box in his lap.

After almost a minute had passed, Charles opened his mouth to ask what they were waiting for, and was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. He turned to look, saw a nurse standing there—and gasped, despite himself, fingers flying to his head reflexively.

She wasn't wearing a helmet, and for the first time in—_oh, god, it's been_ forever—Charles felt almost whole; he didn't plunge in deeply but in a matter of moments he knew more than he could have learned over months of rolling around the manor.

_Her name was Beth—short for Elizabeth, never Lizzie—and she was thirty-four, had four children (three sons, one daughter, one of the sons had died) and was a mutant; nothing too extreme but she_ could _turn slightly translucent and two of her children were in the mutant military. Most of the mansion staff were mutants as well, but rather more of them than Erik was probably aware of were humans passing as mutant. The situation in the rest of the world was worse than what made it onto the news, characterized by constant fear and hunger, but Beth was glad that she…_

Charles extricated himself from her mind with difficulty, trying to ignore Erik's smug appraisal of his reaction, and settled his hands back into his lap. He smiled unsteadily. "Yes, thank you, Beth; Erik was just showing me the call system. I don't need anything right now, but I'm sure I'll make your acquaintance later."

She nodded, curtsied quickly, and left.

Once the door had closed Charles turned back to Erik. "I can't feel her anymore." It was an unasked question.

Erik's eyes glinted out from beneath the brim of his helmet. "The entire manor is telepath-proofed. You're welcome, by the way; there's one of those in every one of your rooms should you require assistance."

"You've gone through a lot of trouble to keep me contained," Charles observed dryly.

A weary grin crossed Erik's face, and he chuckled. "Not everything is about you, old friend. There are other telepaths out there I'm more worried about. All I've done since you arrived is to instruct my staff to keep their helmets on more firmly. That can, of course, change, if you prove yourself capable of coexisting peacefully with us."

Charles nodded mutely, quietly shaken under his nonchalance, reeling from the rush of finally being able to look at someone and _understand_. For a moment, he wondered, _How did he know I wanted that so badly?_

But that was silly; in a world come to be characterized by deprivation, the only things Charles had lacked over the past few years had been stimulating conversation, sex, and the comforting presence of minds surrounding his. The first he could no longer legitimately complain about, and the second—while, thank god, still technically possible—seemed more distant all the time.

That left only the last thing, and Erik had, for all that Charles said it first, practically _invented_ the phrase "mutant, and proud."

Erik's soft smile suggested to Charles that he wasn't hiding his feelings quite so well as he'd hoped, but the other man didn't say anything about it, only—bizarrely—leaned down to Charles' feet, picking each one up by the ankle and setting them in his lap.

Charles watched in wordless bemusement, not entirely sure how one went about asking the necessary question, when Erik's soft voice answered his unspoken inquiry. "I'm just going to test something. You don't need to be afraid of me, Charles."

The telepath cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, it's just that I was pretty certain those were mine."

In the middle of untying Charles' shoes, Erik glanced up and replied, "So they are, but I assumed you would refuse if I asked. You know I've never… _Intentionally_ hurt you. I'm not going to start now."

Charles looked for a place to set the call button, and placed it on the end table, where it clunked rather loudly. "Perhaps you wouldn't try to hurt _me_, but that doesn't change the fact that your actions have not only lead to injury, but to genocide. Something's changed about you, my friend, and I don't know that I can fix it."

Erik frowned intently at Charles' socks before stripping off the offending garments. "I don't need to be fixed, Charles. None of us need to be fixed. If the rest of the world could have accepted that…"

"You never gave them that chance," Charles pointed out as Erik's hand vanished into his clothing and reappeared holding a modestly sized steel ball.

The sphere contorted and oozed into the shape of a finger-width rod. "We couldn't afford to let them make the wrong choice," Erik countered, and ran the tip of the rod up the bottom of Charles' bare feet, one and then the other. Charles felt nothing, and Erik didn't look at him. "Which I knew they would," he concluded.

"What does that mean?" Charles asked, referring now to his feet, which Erik had wrapped his long fingers around as if to keep them from being chilled. Then again, now that Charles was in the state he grew up in rather than on the other side of the continent, he could appreciate the unseasonably cold weather, and few things froze faster than uncared-for toes.

Erik met his eyes, finally, making a good show of absent-mindedness. "It means you're paralyzed," he explained flatly. "You can't expect results this soon."

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**vii.**

Charles never did get to see the research, but Erik waved it off, pulling Charles' socks back on and tucking his feet down onto the chair. "Our trials suggest that it should take about a week to see improvement," Erik told him.

"So soon?" Charles couldn't help but be impressed.

Erik's lips curved up very slightly along the edges. "It's the physical therapy you're going to kill me for," he replied.

Charles didn't match his playfulness, and said, "If this works, you have an obligation to make this procedure available to the rest of the world. You know that, right?"

To this, Erik huffed a laugh. "Oh, my old friend, there are bigger problems I have to solve first."

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**viii.**

The next day saw the clock moving with excruciating slowness. Charles traveled around his rooms, opening drawers full of unfamiliar clothing that might well have been something he'd wear, and reading the first few pages of several books on biology and history before setting them down and wishing Erik had provided him with novels.

That evening Erik brought a slim briefcase with him to show Charles. It was full of papers, which he spread out in two neat piles on top of the desk in what he'd referred to as Charles' office.

Charles flipped through them absently, the numbers blurring before his eyes. "I studied genetics, Erik, not law," he reminded the other man, who half-sat on the edge of the desk.

Erik nodded and explained something about budgets, expenditures, and programs, jabbing at the papers emphatically, until finally Charles stopped him mid-word with a touch of his fingers to Erik's arm. The sudden silence was in its own way too loud, so Charles coughed to clear his throat.

"Just tell me the short version," Charles recommended. "That, or take off your helmet."

Erik's eyes glinted wary and thoughtful in the shadow cast by the lamp. "I'll take you to the next meeting," he suggested instead, and then bade Charles to follow him back to the couch in the sitting room. There, they talked about Raven—_Mystique_, Erik called her now—but only about her changing tastes in food and faces; nothing about what she'd been doing.

As he spoke, Erik gathered up Charles' feet again, stripping them bare all while recounting some of Raven's more dramatic dealings with men, running the steel rod over Charles' soles without pausing for breath. Charles could understand this hint, and smiled politely at Erik's stories without remarking on the fact that, yet again, he couldn't feel a thing.

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**ix.**

His rooms were stifling after four years of being able to merely glance to one side and see mountains sprawling into the sky. Charles found that he never used certain areas of his rooms, wondered why, and eventually realized that he'd been moving from window to window. They were a poor substitute; each of his five windows looked into the courtyard, providing a view only of Erik's mansion, his mind caged by a complex tracery of flaws within the immovable glass.

Charles began to watch the people below; they seemed unreal, illusory without the hum of thoughts to prove their existence, seen from too far away to catch the subtler clues of their emotional states. He assumed that most of them were mutants, however, and once that thought occurred to him, Charles watched their activities with the intensity of a hawk, waiting for some revealing tell.

So it was that he finally caught a glimpse of blue and red below.

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**x.**

"I saw Raven earlier," Charles told Erik.

The other man looked up at him; he had abandoned his usual spot on the couch in order to lean against the paneled walls. "Nothing to say about the meeting?"

Charles shook his head, lips pressing together. Needless to say, good impressions had not been made. "Do I get to see my sister, or is that something else you'll be holding hostage to my good behavior?"

"Tell me, was I lying when I told you that I'm the only person keeping our own government from descending into chaos?" Erik leant his head back against the wall, staring with hooded eyes and crossed arms into the darkness of Charles' bedroom, opposite.

Charles paused, picking at a thread coming loose on his pants, and insisted, "My sister?"

Without so much as moving his head, Erik flicked his attention back down to the telepath. "You know the answer, Charles."

"Why?" Charles asked. "Why bother playing this game? If you don't trust me, then why did you bring me here?"

Erik exhaled slowly, pushing himself off from the wall so that he could walk near to his estranged friend. "Be patient," he urged, laying a hand onto Charles' shoulder. "You inspire a certain enviable loyalty in people that I think you're well aware of." Perhaps he noticed the dark glare Charles directed at his fingers, because he quickly moved on.

"You seemed to get along well with everybody," Erik remarked, changing tactics. He picked up one of Charles' abandoned books, flipping through the pages to see which corner had been folded over.

Charles winced; for the most part the other mutants had been polite at first, and then after introductions they pointedly ignored him. They knew who he was, of course; one man, his voice crackling with electricity, had taken the time to observe that Charles had once been the only thing holding back mutant supremacy, and _now_ would you look at him?

There had been some people he'd recognized. Most of Shaw's old crew were still around, although it seemed that the young man who could create the vortexes never ventured this far north during the colder months. Azazel had been polite, had seen the slender headpiece Charles wore over his hair and commiserated, through his thick accent, "Ah, that is too bad. I cannot teleport within these walls, either; it is so boring, always having to walk."

It went without saying that the vast majority of the mutants in the room then proceeded to prove that they were every bit as capable of corruption as their human counterparts, shamelessly arguing for more money to put into programs that always managed to remain under-funded, no matter how much money was thrown into them, or advocating certain human rights violations.

"You got along well with Ms. Frost in particular, I thought," Erik continued, an amused gleam in his eye. "Young telepaths in love, perhaps?"

At this, Charles shivered, just a little; it had felt so _wrong_ to have her in his head without being able to read her in turn. And the way she'd returned his cautious greeting with a glance down to his legs, a slow, malicious smile creeping over her face—

Misinterpreting Charles' reaction, Erik chuckled wryly. "How ever did you survive for all this time without being able to use your bad pickup lines on unsuspecting women?"

Charles tore the stray thread from his slacks and scoffed. "By thinking about you, mostly," he grumbled. He looked back up at the other man and saw that—that oh, he'd made a mistake.

He'd intended to get a rise out of Erik, to offend him, but the sharp way Charles found himself regarded now, by dark, considering eyes, reminded him of something he'd known once but evidently forgotten: a huge important tiny detail that had somehow been lost in the intervening years of pain and betrayal.

He'd forgotten that Erik had been in love with him.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you all for your lovely reviews! I had some questions about whether the "cure" was going to work, and since I had _planned_ to answer that this chapter but, well, didn't quite make it that far… Let's just say that everything I write in this (except for specific timeframes) is based on real science, and real science takes time.

That said, um, I _did_ warn you that this wasn't a happy story, so, uh, I can't be held accountable for any broken hearts? *flees*

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**xi.**

The memory came to him in sudden, astonishing detail, as if it had been waiting for that moment to pounce.

Wearing their new suits for the first time, ready to fly to Cuba, unaware, for the moment, of what had happened to Hank—Erik and Charles had lingered after the students in the lab, the other man fidgeting in his leather, Charles grinning.

"I look ridiculous," Erik had grumbled, brushing his hands over his thighs in a covert attempt to retrieve the suit from where it seemed intent on migrating.

But Charles—standing not tall exactly, but _standing_, on legs he hadn't yet learned not to take for granted—had thought they looked brilliant, all of them, in their sharp contrasting colors. He'd clapped Erik on the arm to distract the man from tugging at his suit buckles.

"You look good, Erik," Charles assured him, "We're lucky we didn't lose Hank to Paris."

Erik had stopped what he was doing, self-conscious of his self-consciousness, and smiled back, crookedly. "You're not just saying that?" he asked, dark humor masking his sincere interest. He could, of course, probably still kill people while butt-naked and painted blue, but he had some measure of pride as well.

Charles had swayed into Erik to bump against his shoulder, chuckling; Erik's hand caught onto his arm in reply. "You look _more_ than all right, my friend," he insisted, and Erik's eyes were so startled and bright, the green in them caught by the laboratory lights, his mind such a fine point of contentment and anxiety—

—That Charles really shouldn't have been surprised when Erik glanced around to check that the students were gone; when his hand moved from Charles' shoulder up to the telepath's cheek; when he closed that last bit of space between them and pressed his lips to Charles' in a closed-mouthed but emphatic kiss, unhurried but not lingering, the tips of his fingers digging in behind Charles' jaw.

Then Erik had pulled away, a pleased smirk warring with stark terror for control of his face, and Charles had searched his eyes and mind desperately for some clue that maybe this was just something that people from the continent did, just another one of those peculiar mainland European oddities where it was normal for one male friend to kiss another and—no.

Erik was in love with him.

Erik was in love with him, and Erik—who had not yet committed genocide, who still believed in that place between rage and serenity—deserved more than "_it's not you, it's me_." Deserved to be unremittingly happy, and loved.

And so, with a shaky smile, still feeling the damp of Erik's mouth evaporating cold on his skin, Charles had given Erik's arm one last palsied squeeze and began, warmly, "Erik, my dear friend…"

Then Moira had ducked into the lab and asked, incredulously, what they were waiting around for, and weren't they all supposed to be in a hurry, so Charles had promised Erik, "_After_; we'll talk after."

But there had never _been_ an "after," and in hindsight, if Charles could have changed—

Well, he would have changed a lot of things.

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**xii.**

The ghost of a triumphant smiled passed over Erik's face, and Charles wished suddenly that he hadn't torn out the loose string, because knotting it between his fingers was a poor substitute for plucking at it. "Er. That is. I had more pressing—uh—_important_ things on my mind," Charles added, after a too-long pause, and Erik's smile became more substantial.

He didn't act on it, however, not yet; Erik would take that information, store it away, and bring in out again for later use. For now, he merely lowered himself down onto the couch, something Charles now knew as the signal that he should move himself so that Erik could perform the ritual of the steel rod.

"We think we'll be able to clone genes soon," Erik informed him as he set to work, his words allowing Charles to finally breathe freely.

"Oh?" The geneticist tried not to let his jealousy show. With enough copies of a given gene, isolated from the genetic soup of its host, they'd be able to study the expression of sequences Charles, in his years of study, could only guess at.

"Yes, we've found that bacteriophages cut the DNA of _E. coli_ in very specific places in order to insert their own genes. If we could duplicate that, we could insert any sequence we wanted into a bacterial cell and let that cell do the work of making copies for us." There was no change in the ritual, but instead of replacing Charles' socks and tucking his legs down again, Erik held the telepath's feet cradled in his lap, gently kneading the unresponsive flesh with his thumbs.

"Is that so?" Charles asked, somewhat coldly.

Erik glanced up, his eyes creased with fondness. "In time, Charles; in time. There are still plenty of discoveries for you to make."

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**xiii.**

Charles hadn't bothered with alarm clocks in a long time—he never had anything urgent to do anymore—but he found it hard to sleep in an unfamiliar bed in a strange room, so he was already in his chair, a thick robe shrugged over his bare shoulders and bunched over his boxers, when his assistant arrived that morning.

He looked away from the chill gray courtyard back into the golden glow of his suite, and felt instantly at ease as Beth's unobtrusive thoughts washed into his. "What are you doing here so early?" he asked, curious. Beth, he knew with a surety he rarely felt these days, would not hurt him even if she'd hated him.

"Breakfast," she replied, but she had brought no food.

"Ah," Charles agreed, nodding. "With Erik." He felt the same twinge of uncertainty and nervousness he felt every time he thought about talking to Erik after the night before, but Beth didn't know anything about the breakfast other than that there would food.

She left him to the shower, where he sat on a built-in shelf and scrubbed himself down—one point of pride Charles refused to give up, even though it took a long time and hot water was a luxury—and when he got out she'd arranged clothes for him; some of the new ones that Erik had provided.

Before she helped him get fully dressed, however, Charles lay back on the bed and allowed Beth to stretch his legs, rotating and pulling them in every direction as he stared resolutely at the ceiling. This was another ritual, one that he had endured for all four years of his internment; his assistant, he knew, didn't think anything of it, but it galled Charles to watch such an obvious display of his inabilities. If the cure worked, at least, Charles wouldn't have to deal with the pain of tightened tendons because he would be as limber as a twelve-year-old girl.

Finally he was dressed and presentable, wearing a loose brown suit, his hair brushed from his eyes, and his legs neatly perpendicular to the lines of the chair. Charles thought it was all maybe a little formal for breakfast, but then again Erik _was_ the supreme ruler of the world now, or near enough like.

Beth moved to take the handles of Charles' chair, and he waved her off with a slight smile. "I know where to go, it's all right." So she walked behind him as he followed the path in her mind, coasting over the smooth, even floors past occasional guards, all of them as blank and empty as suits of armor.

The room was not a banquet hall, which came as some surprise to Charles; he had expected something large and grand, with some sort of really long table so that he'd have to crane his neck just to look across. Beth had never been inside, so when he opened the door they were seeing it new, for the first time.

_Windows_. The windows were all that Charles could see, for a moment, as he sat transfixed by the frame-faceted landscape of the New York countryside beyond. This was no mere view into the courtyard, or of tamed and groomed grounds; these were _mountains_, unlike the sharp peaks of Canada in their time-softened roundness, shrouded in forest.

"I thought you might be feeling a bit cooped up," Erik's voice said, and Charles noticed him finally, sitting at a small table below the wall of windows. He occupied the chair as if he not only owned it, but that perhaps, when he sat down, the chair sprang into being simply so that he would not be inconvenienced. It did not, however, prevent him from looking absurd and out of place, his red costume and helmet jewel-bright against the drab (but so, so spacious) world outside.

The other side of the table was conspicuously empty, and Charles moved to take that space. "I have to wonder sometimes, Erik, whether you brought me here just to prove to me that you could find a better mansion than mine."

Erik's little disbelieving chuckle convinced, rather than dissuaded, Charles that this was at least partially the case. "You can't believe that I genuinely want you by my side?"

Charles, who had been re-adjusting the wheels of his chair so that he was just the right distance away, paused. "Yes," he admitted finally. "I believe that you're also trying to prove that your _side_ is better than mine."

"Clearly I need to locate my chess set," Erik mused. "I'm starting to realize that the board and pieces were really only insulation from your wit." He raised the fingers of one gloved hand absently, and Charles realized with a start that they weren't alone; being surrounded by people he couldn't read was like being surrounded by dim paper silhouettes that occasionally moved, and one of those person-shapes had just nodded and left through a side door.

Erik watched the man go, then turned his attention back to Charles and leaned forward. "I do really want you to stand next to me, Charles; or even sit, if that's the case. I want you at my right hand when we write the words that will bring order back to the world."

Charles huffed and looked away from Erik's earnest gaze, down into the lacy threads of the tablecloth. He traced his finger over a spot in the pattern that looked smoother than the others. "Then I think you'll find that fewer ears will listen to you."

The other man tilted his head, the movement exaggerated by the shape of his helmet. "How do you mean?"

"Your _Brotherhood_, as you say—and by the way, I saw quite a lot of women there as well—think little enough of me when I'm simply in the room. I imagine they'll be much less open to the idea that I might be in a position of power."

Erik seemed about to grin, as if perhaps Charles was joking, before his lips smoothed into a line of concern. "You think that they think less of you…? Why?"

Charles shrugged and glanced down at his legs ruefully before staring out between the panels of the window.

He was shocked to feel a hand touch his, stopping his fingers from their obsessive lace-stroking. Erik's gloves were warm and rough, and Charles looked back up at him to see that his expression was deadly serious.

"They're nervous around you, my old friend, but not because of—of some _mistake_. They fear you because you're _Charles Xavier_, and for an entire year, almost single-handedly, you made our every attempt at war look like a child's tantrum," Erik explained firmly, and then lowered his voice to add, "Seeing you by my side, they won't be thinking of you as weak or frail. They'll be admiring _me_, because I dare to be near you."

Charles slid his hand out from under Erik's and used it to push his chair back from the table slightly, as clear a signal he could make without actually saying anything. Erik let him, scrutinizing the telepath's posture as he too leaned back.

"This isn't really appropriate conversation for breakfast, is it?" he admitted, and glanced around. "Speaking of—"

Erik hadn't _warned_ him, and the thoughts of the cook were like a bucket of scalding hot water being poured over his head; sudden, startling, overwhelming in its intensity. Charles couldn't help the small noise he made in his throat, saw Erik look over at the sound, smiling from the corner of his eye—the telepath felt a deep stab of resentment, even as some sort of pathetic gratitude bubbled up around it, seizing upon the fresh, unfamiliar taste of a new mind.

The cook was just an ordinary person—well, mutant—but _how_ he was ordinary! He hadn't got enough sleep the night before; he hadn't stayed in a relationship with a woman for longer than a month in over six years; he loved to use cinnamon in everything, from hot chocolate to bacon. He was extraordinary, in his own ways.

He was also aware of—and Charles had to glance over at Erik to see if he suspected—a number of people spread throughout the mansion who were quietly anti-extinction insurrectionists.

Charles thanked him for the omelette and coffee set before him, observing as a plate of buttered toast and a carafe of orange juice separated the table into halves. Utensils rapidly found their way to either side of his plate, and an empty glass landed near his knife. Then the cook retreated to a further corner of the room to wait.

"Well, this is all very opulent," Charles remarked dryly, his hands still spread away from the table.

"Thank you," Erik replied, claiming some of the toast.

Charles sipped at his coffee silently, cutting into the omelette. It contained mushrooms, which he did not care for, but while mutants didn't suffer terribly from the haze of radiation spilled from countless ruptured power plants, chickens were somewhat more susceptible, so he didn't complain.

Erik was still talking, of course, about maybe getting Charles something a little more striking to wear, or what projects he might find interesting in the labs if at some point he could go there, and Erik's enthusiasm did not seem to be hampered by Charles' monosyllabic responses.

As Charles watched Erik take it upon himself to pour Charles a glass of orange juice—as if he could just walk into the supermarket and grab more off the shelf—and as he offered salt and pepper and more toast and cream for his coffee, Charles began to come to a grim realization, and he was so sure of its truth that he wondered if perhaps his powers included seeing into the future.

He was probably going to end up having sex with Erik. Not right then, of course, and probably not for a while, but Charles knew the matter was going to come up _eventually_, and that when it did, he would, and almost certainly not be because Erik forced him to. Erik had changed, and had done terrible things, but Charles didn't think he'd changed _that_ much.

No, it would happen because Erik, damn him, was the only person who could provide Charles with the things he needed to make life bearable, and if Charles had to choose between living forever in dull solitude or occasionally having sex with his mass-murdering former (and male) best friend, well, he knew himself well enough and honestly enough to guess which choice he'd make.

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	4. Chapter 4

Bit shorter than usual, because I've decided that I'd rather update more often than have long chapters. I tend to update faster on LJ because of the character limits, and generally it's twice as fast there as here. Not today! I feel like you deserve the faster updates, because your reviews really help me keep going. Really! I read them all more than once, because they're _that_ amazing and inspiring, and I keep coming back to them every time I feel my endurance flagging.

This chapter sort of breaks my heart a little, which is saying something since for the most part I'm not affected by my own writing. Even beating Charles up in "Waiting Games" didn't make me feel as sorry for him as I do here. Something good happens in this chapter too though!

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**xiv.**

True to his word, Erik brought a chess set that evening. However, he stayed long enough only to exchange a few rounds with Charles before excusing himself, claiming an early morning and a full schedule for the next several days. Charles studied the board for a long time after Erik left, until the black and white checkers blurred into an indistinct gray and he decided it was time to go to sleep.

The next day was a dull blur. Charles tried turning on the radio, but the songs were all the same ones that had played four years ago, and were frequently interrupted by bursts of static. He called Beth four times until he sensed her tightly-wound frustration at being continually interrupted, and Charles worried that if he kept calling her she might not come for a genuine emergency. He reasoned that she had not been a very interesting conversationalist anyway.

All of this took place before noon, and the rest of the day stretched before him like a cat staring malevolently out from its master's favorite armchair.

The books were as dull as before, but Charles attempted to read Plato, since it had made a favorable impression upon his younger self. He now found it to be a rather uninteresting statement of things he could have guessed for himself coupled with outright falsehoods, and despite his every attempt to soldier on through it, it was only one o' clock when he set it down. Trying to write down a journal resulted in only a number of scratched-out introductions and a half hour of successfully wasted time.

Charles realized, with a start, that he had not used his voice for hours, and had a sudden and extremely irrational fear that the silence had stolen it for good when he opened his mouth and, for a moment, couldn't speak; then the words came, loud and senseless without an audience, and he felt embarrassed for the moment of panic.

After all, it was only one day.

With every other option exhausted and his mind idle, Charles began, inevitably, to imagine being kissed by Erik. The only information he had to go on was his five-year-old memory of what amounted to a peck on the lips, but while he was sure that kissing a man would be different from kissing a woman, he had an extensive library of such occurrences to draw from.

He imagined Erik's hands in his hair, angling his face up to meet—stubble? No, Erik was always clean-shaven; could probably shave while using his hands for some other task. He would be controlling, certainly, but Charles didn't know enough about Erik's rather barren love life to guess whether he'd be rough or gentle. He pictured both scenarios: teeth knocking against his, scraping his lips in a frenzied rush; or slow, sensual, with large hands sweeping along the curve of his neck and trailing down his chest.

Charles expected to feel disgust. Certainly he felt a twist in his gut, and it wasn't a comfortable feeling, but it was—what? Dread, nervousness, anxiety, embarrassment; and then of course there was the lingering bitterness over being used, but… Not disgust.

Charles decided that this was probably because Erik, while lacking in certain areas necessary for Charles' interest—most of them, admittedly, around his chest—was not himself objectionable. He was clean, fit, intelligent; from many people's point of view, not a bad catch. Perhaps most importantly, with the way the world was currently, he was _safe_.

_This is absurd_, Charles thought. Here he was, rationalizing that being coerced into sexual relations with the person responsible for the largest extinction event since the end of the Mesozoic might be acceptable simply because the idea itself didn't make him sick.

_You're giving up, Charles_, he accused himself. _You're giving up and nothing's even happened yet_.

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**xv.**

After spending all afternoon thinking about it, Charles half expected to be jumped by Erik the moment he came through the door. He wasn't, of course, and nothing unusual occurred that evening; Erik preformed the Ritual of the Feet, which was as eventful as always, then exchanged another few rounds of chess, humming absently at Charles' suggestions that he might like more to do during the day.

All too soon, Charles was again faced with the silence of his rooms, and when he went to bed it was more to escape awareness than because he felt tired.

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**xvi.**

The next day was worse. With the exception of attempting to converse with Beth, Charles tried everything he had the day prior to even less success. He even kept the radio on, despite the fact that it kept fizzing out during important parts of the songs. Charles attempted to fill in the gaps from memory, but he just couldn't remember the words, or even many of the melodies.

Eventually he found himself motionless, staring out the window nearly unblinkingly, watching the movements of those below; looking for familiar faces. After a while he noticed that the radio had stopped playing songs entirely, and had been filling the air with static for some unknowable duration.

That night, Erik was less talkative than usual, and spent much of his visit staring at the board silently. Charles attempted to draw him into conversation, but he had done nothing, and had nothing to say.

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**xvii.**

Charles began to feel as if he'd done something wrong, and the more he considered it, the more he felt that it was probably his continuing lack of response to the cell culture he'd been injected with six days prior.

_But that's ridiculous_, he thought to himself, even as he willed his legs to move. _It's_ supposed_ to take a week_.

Still, that night, he couldn't help but notice that Erik frowned as he ran the metal rod down the soles of Charles' feet; that he had begun to refer to _if_ the cure worked, rather than when.

"I thought I felt something that time," Charles muttered, and the lie sat heavy and humiliating between the two of them. Erik, thankfully, pretended that he hadn't said anything.

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**xviii.**

…_I can't survive this, I'm going to give in, this is torture, this is inhumane..._

But of course it was only silence, and men had endured far worse for far longer.

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**xix.**

It took a week exactly.

Erik had been talking about Africa, about how many of the more arid regions had, strangely, reverted to nearly tropical conditions due to an odd combination of altered ocean currents, precipitation caused by the ash in the atmosphere, and cooler weather.

"I've arranged a study to determine whether these effects will be permanent, and if it would be worth it to establish a base in Namibia," Erik said, and then, abruptly, stopped.

Charles' knee had jumped beneath the weight of his hand.

They both stared, for a while, before Charles looked back up to see a cautious smile flirting with Erik's face. "I _felt_ that," Charles declared, almost unable to believe it.

Erik touched the rod to Charles' other foot, and this time the movement was more noticeable and the feeling more tangible, although it was nonetheless very general and faint. Even still, it was more than Charles had felt from that part of himself in five years, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe as they both watched his toes, expectantly.

Finally he exhaled. "I can't move them," he admitted, disappointed despite the success.

Erik nodded, running his fingers over Charles' ankles, tucking his feet into the pair of black slippers Charles had taken to wearing and now realized, belatedly, that he could _feel_. "It will take time," Erik assured him, controlling his expression carefully. "Your spine is only just starting to transmit signal again. This… This is a big step. This is good. You're recovering faster than predicted."

Erik tucked his legs back down onto the chair, and Charles felt a flare of frustration that his legs, so close to being freed, must once again be trapped. He wanted to say something—finally _had_ something to say—but he didn't know where to begin.

Clearing his throat, Erik shifted on the couch. "I had thought that after, if the cure worked… You might like to see Mystique. Tell her the good news yourself."

"I would, yes," Charles replied, and the words felt almost mechanical; too regular, too empty of any one of the emotions currently running circles through his brain.

The other man appeared to be uncomfortable on the couch, and stood. "Charles, I…" He paused, looking down at the floor, and no further speech seemed to be forthcoming.

His throat felt dry, ready to crumble, but Charles forced himself to ask, "Yes, Erik?"

"I…" Erik began again, his eyes too bright, too dark, and then he bent down, leaning one hand on the arm of the chair, and Charles had an absurd moment to think _are my brakes down?_ before Erik's other hand wove into his hair and Erik's mouth was against his, urgent and wet and with the helmet complicating things by digging into his face and it was _too much_—

—Charles broke the kiss and, corralled by the hand in his hair, tucked his nose against Erik's throat and breathed, "Erik, I can't, I don't, I can't…"

Erik pressed them together in an awkward one-armed hug, his hand sliding down to the back of Charles' neck. Then he drew away, just far enough to look into Charles' eyes as he brought his other hand up to cradle the telepath's cheek. "I know," he murmured back.

Charles could see that he _did_ know; could tell, in a moment of clarity that made him wonder whether it was his telepathy and not his legs that was working again, that Erik knew _exactly_ what he was doing, and that made it easier.

It made it easier, when Erik leant into him again, to give no resistance; to let Erik kiss him with the careful reassurance he wouldn't express through words; to relax into the hands holding his face steady, Erik's thumbs shielding him from the edges of the helmet. To, when prompted, allow Erik's tongue to run along the insides of his teeth, and even to respond.

It was easy, and tomorrow, Charles knew, he would see Raven.

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	5. Chapter 5

Sorry for the longer update time! I'd intended to get this up by Thursday, but I've had to spend time with family so I missed out on making it a birthday present. That said, this is a little longer than usual! Also, for once you get to see some things before the LJ people do.

This was a bit tougher to write—Raven started out being really fun to do dialog for, but as _she_ struggled to find the right thing to say, well, so did I, ha. Full disclosure: I have no siblings. Additionally, I know pretty much nothing about the world of X-Men, so I'm just making up characters as they come along, basically. I dunno.

For your interest: look up the Siberian Traps on Wikipedia. Largest volcanic event in Earth's history, concurrent with the largest extinction event.

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**xx.**

When she knocked at the door, Charles thought Beth was warning him of her entrance, and didn't say anything.

But then the knock came again, and he knew.

"Come in," Charles called, after a frightening moment where his voice cracked and he thought she might leave before she heard him. He hadn't seen her in years, not since he'd been captured, and she had looked at him with a mixture of pity and anger and apology and turned away, letting Erik's soldiers take him.

The door opened, and it was Raven, and she was, was—

_Dear god, she's naked_, he thought, blushing a little and raising his hand to his forehead to block his eyes.

"Charles?" Raven inquired, concern in her voice; in her mind as well, although Charles, keeping to his old promise, did not look any deeper. Instead, he took a moment just to _listen_: to hear the unique cadence of her thoughts, always shifting but at the core, unchanging. Constant.

"Charles?" He saw Raven step cautiously closer from between his fingers, which he managed to pry away from his face so he could meet her eyes. Her _eyes_. Charles' first glimpse of breasts in four years needed to _not_ be those of his adopted sister.

"Raven, it's… It's been a while, hasn't it?" he asked, cautiously, reaching a hand down to turn one wheel of his chair, angling to face her.

Raven's scaled blue skin creased with a small, teasing smile as she padded forward on bare feet. "No one's called me that in a long time."

Charles sighed, and rolled his eyes. "I'm not calling you Mystique," he protested. "It's just, it's _silly_."

It was a comment that could have offended, but Raven barked a laugh. "Fine, fine, you can call me Raven. But only you," she clarified. She had reached his chair, and she paused, looking down at him apprehensively. She seemed about to speak, but stopped herself, pressing a single finger against the edge of the chair's armrest.

"Charles…" Raven began, her voice trailing off and leaving them in the grips of a jumbled silence.

"You never came to visit," Charles finished for her, eyes dropping down to watch where her finger sank into the padding where he sometimes rested his hand.

"I…" Raven shook her head, and started over. "…I won't say that I couldn't have. I should have. Charles, this is a poor excuse, I know, but I was angry at you for a long time, after."

Charles nodded grimly, his lips pressed together in a firm line. "What changed? You're here now."

He glanced up to see a brief, bitter smile pass over Raven's face as she studied his knees. "I don't know. The world. Time. Me, maybe. It was dumb, and after a while I just couldn't think of anything you did that was bad enough for me to never talk to you again. By then, it had been so long that I didn't know if you…"

"Perhaps I'm simply infuriating by nature?" Charles mused, the sincere worry of his expression a revealing contrast to the levity of his voice.

A grin, finally, spread over Raven's face, and she pushed at Charles' shoulder. "Of course! But not _that_ infuriating. You're only a small nuisance, really."

Charles leaned forward and narrowed his eyes a little. "You don't get to call _me_ a nuisance. _You'r_e the _queen_ of nuisances."

Raven bent down and met his stare fearlessly. "Every kingdom needs a king," she replied, smugly.

Unable to maintain his frown, Charles felt his face crease with the first true smile he'd had in a long time, and he slung his arm around Raven's shoulders to pull her down into a fierce, if somewhat unbalanced, hug. Her scales were soft and dry beneath his fingers and against his cheek, and her palms against his back were more solid than they had ever been in his dreams.

"I missed you," he whispered, almost soundlessly, near Raven's ear.

"I'm sorry," she responded, just as quietly. "You shouldn't have had to."

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**xxi.**

After Charles had a moment to wipe at his eyes—something he always did openly, because he believed that a person could only be as embarrassed as they looked—he had a chance to really _look_ at Raven.

She didn't appear to have aged at all, which didn't surprise him, although Charles himself had a number of gray hairs and lines he hadn't before. Unlike Charles, Raven's body showed signs of harsh use; she had grayish scars and notched scales, a thinner face, and her color was not quite the intense shade he remembered. Charles wanted to ask her what she'd been doing, but he thought he knew.

"So am I allowed to sit down?" Raven asked, a mocking glint in her mottled yellow eyes.

"Sure," Charles replied, jolted from his observations. "The couch is free."

The words had barely left his mouth before his adoptive sister was sinking into the couch—at one time, she would have flopped down—and he didn't comment on the fact that she was sitting more-or-less exactly where Erik always did as he wheeled himself over.

"Fancy rooms," Raven observed, looking around at the nice furniture and wood paneling.

Charles grimaced. "_Boring_ rooms. Erik could at least have provided me with something to do during the day."

"Only you would complain from the lap of luxury," she teased fondly. "I'm a little surprised he still lets you call him that, by the way."

"It's his _name_," Charles reminded her. "You're just hurt because 'Magneto' was your idea."

"Maybe," she admitted, the enigmatic tilt of her head matching her own nickname. "Speaking of, he told me you have some sort of news?"

"Did he?" Charles inquired, the quirk of his eyebrows ruining the effect of his studied nonchalance. "Very well, I suppose I'll have to demonstrate."

"Please do," Raven told him, settling her hands in her lap and straightening up, every inch the perfect student she never was.

Leaning over, Charles wrapped his hands around his right knee to bring his foot close enough to remove the slipper, which he placed on his other thigh. Then, still holding up his leg, he concentrated, wiggling his toes and rotating his ankle. It wasn't a smooth motion, because it had taken hours lying in bed and staring down at his feet just to re-locate that part of his brain where messages to his toes were filed; still, it elicited a gasp from Raven.

She reached out to brush her fingers along the edge of his foot, and Charles, with a small noise of surprise, tugged it away from her, still using his hands to move the estranged limb. "Tickles," he admitted, and Raven's smile was _almost_ crafty enough for him to attempt escape, but instead she settled back and grinned at Charles as if he'd actually gotten up and tap-danced.

"That's fantastic!" Raven declared. "You know that I would have, would have never left back then if I'd… But I'm glad." She paused, and Charles could feel the hum of her mind—genuine happiness, but also…

"You knew about this, didn't you?" he accused. Charles kept his tone light, but he felt a hard glint of hurt at the thought that his surprise had been taken from him, along with everything else. "Did Erik tell you?"

Raven flushed a deeper blue. "No, he didn't, but I knew you were here and I knew that the lab's had some success in that direction, so it was easy to guess."

Charles raised his eyebrow. "I wouldn't have thought you'd have anything to do with somewhere science was taking place."

It would have been a feat for another person to look as mischievous as Raven did then. "I have a, let's say, _vested interest_. You should talk Erik into letting you get down there sometime."

"Mm. Perhaps I will," he agreed, frozen beneath his smile. Charles wanted, right then, to tell her about the—what? Arrangement? Bargain?—between himself and Erik, wanted to tell her that he _had_ asked, but that asking might not be good enough. Raven, however, was smiling as if he were the best thing she'd seen in a long time, and the words just wouldn't come. Instead, Charles guessed, "It's Hank, isn't it? He's your vested interest."

Her blush spread, but Raven remained evasive. "You'll just have to see, won't you?"

Charles leaned forward, hands folded together, and told her, "Well, I'll just have to act surprised when I do."

Raven reached out to give him a playful slap upside the head, laughing at his stunned, blinking silence. "You've had that one coming for a long time," she explained. "I can just imagine you, sitting by yourself with nobody around to beat some sense into you, and it breaks my heart."

Giving Raven the glare that meant she was definitely not being as funny as she thought she was, Charles rearranged his ruffled hair. "I'm beginning to look back on those days with a fond nostalgia."

"Ooh, Professor Grumpypants unsheathes his claws," Raven replied, smirking.

"I'm even less of a Professor now than I was then," Charles corrected, his playful mood quickly evaporating into weariness.

"Yeah," Raven acknowledged, looking away. "Yeah, but if anyone could succeed at it in this world, it'd be you."

"How do you mean?"

Raven sighed, looking down at her hands, which she curled palm-up on her thighs. "Another reason I avoided you for so long, I guess, was because I was afraid you were going to say 'I told you so.'"

Charles furrowed his eyebrows, trying very hard to look as if he were thinking no such thing.

"I suppose it can't be justified," Raven admitted, "but, well, what started out as a simple separatist movement encouraging individuality and self-worth became terrorism, became militarism, and when that wasn't enough…"

"So you're saying it got a little out of hand?" Charles asked, his expression deceptively mild.

With a wry little smile showing she had noticed, Raven replied, "Yes. We wanted to use our powers to intimidate humans into leaving us alone, and to show other mutants how to be strong; how to escape from the oppression of stigma and fear. Things like the Argentinean traps… Those weren't supposed to happen."

She was referring, of course, to the massive volcanism ongoing in South America, which even as they spoke poured sulfur dioxide and ash into the atmosphere from across more than half a million square kilometers of flood basalt, and showed no signs of stopping. Very few mutants possessed the necessary abilities to get anywhere near the area and survive, let alone measure or prevent the eruptions.

Charles took a deep breath. "I can't dispense absolution for that sort of thing, Raven."

"I know," she muttered, seeming, for a moment, as if she'd actually believed he might. "But I thought if I told you…"

"You're my sister," Charles told her, choosing his words carefully, "and I could never hate you."

Raven bit her lip and nodded, blinking rapidly and glancing away. "That's good. Thanks. Better than I expected. It's not just me, though, who I'm talking about."

Charles wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh, so he settled for a harsh chuckle. "You want to apologize on Erik's behalf?"

Her quiet little smile was exactly the one she'd always used to mock his disbelief in the past. "_He_ certainly won't apologize," Raven explained, and leaned forward with a languid grace Charles thought was new. "Erik is—god, don't tell him I said this, but he knows just as well as you do what's happened to the world—what that makes him—and he's become… Well, it seems odd to think of him as being fragile, but he's the only person preventing us from falling into total anarchy, and if something happens to him…"

"Are you saying I should hold his hand and ask him how he feels?" Charles asked, voice flat.

Raven's teeth glinted bright between the blue of her lips. "No, not at all; in fact, the less you say about it, the better, maybe. Just… Be careful with him. _For_ him. He's a bit of an ass, but he's all we've got."

"Sure," Charles agreed, the word stumbling from his mouth, tripped by others he wouldn't say. This was a concern he didn't need. "I'll be careful."

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**xxii.**

The rest of Charles' day, while still largely claimed by boredom, saw him in a much better mood. Additionally, that afternoon he found his monotony interrupted by a summons to begin physical therapy, further breaking the routine; he did not even mind that his therapist, whose slender feminine face bristled with the same black and white hair covering the rest of her body, spent most of the session hissing and swearing. She introduced herself as Badger and regarded Charles as something of a bewildering, annoying inconvenience.

"Your flexibility is good," she'd admitted grudgingly, reaching a thick milky-white nail beneath her helmet to scratch. "But I don't know how you think you'll ever be walking anywhere if you can't even lift your leg up."

So Charles had gritted his teeth, stared down at where his legs dangled from the edge of the table, and pulled at the pitiful remnants of his thigh until his toes rose, very briefly, to a level that might have conceivably been halfway to level with his knee, and then immediately sank down as the energy drained from his muscles.

Badger's sigh implied that perhaps they had been at it for years, rather than five minutes. "Well, okay, just… Do that until you feel like you can't anymore, then do it a couple more times, both sides. I'll be watching."

"You're a professional, right?" Charles asked, and he was joking, but when Badger replied, "Yeah, I took a class," he honestly couldn't tell whether she meant 'took a class' or 'took _a_ class.' Her short body was made stocky with muscle, however, so he decided it would be better all around just to do as she suggested.

It turned out to not take very long.

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**xxiii.**

Charles didn't look up when the door opened; he didn't need to be able to read Erik's mind to know when he was in a room. It was probably rooted in physical clues such as sound and scent, but on the more whimsical side of things, Charles thought it could also be the way all the metal in the room seemed suddenly to be _waiting_, the way a dog's ears perked when its master had not quite reached home.

He'd been hanging his head over the back of the chair, watching the ceiling and feeling the way air moved differently through his bent neck, and while Erik approached Charles fought the urge to right himself and instead merely flicked his eyes over as the other man loomed into his field of vision.

Erik did not at first appear entirely sure how to interpret the pose, but after a moment of consideration reached out and lightly settled his ungloved fingertips along the notched cartilage of Charles' exposed throat. Despite his care, they formed a slightly uncomfortable pressure, briefly acknowledging the message of Charles' gesture before sliding back around to the nape of the telepath's neck, prompting him to lift his head.

"Long day?" Erik asked, his fingers dipping beneath Charles' shirt collar, smoothing down the hair there before it could rise.

"Not so long as before," Charles admitted, looking down into his lap with his chin nearly on his chest. Erik's thumb impressed slow circles onto his shoulder. "But tiring. Tell me, is your physical therapist trained?"

"Badger?" Erik's voice, somewhere above him, was low and amused. "Hardly. There isn't a man alive who could tame her. Or woman, I suppose."

"That's not what I meant," Charles muttered, the mobility of his jaw somewhat impeded by the fact that Erik's fingers scrubbing along his scalp had succeeded in introducing his chin to his clavicles.

Erik paused in his attentions, and then pulled away, moving to sit. "How did your visit with Mystique go?"

Straightening up, Charles ran his hand through his hair to fix whatever mess Erik had made there. "She called me names and recommended I investigate the labs," he replied, hoping that, for once, Erik would take the hint.

"That well?" Erik inquired, lifting up a corner of his mouth. "At least, I _assume_ that name-calling is a good sign."

Charles scrutinized him; the sprawl of his legs, the easy way Erik's hands lay on his stomach, the dark humor of his eyes—he seemed at home, as if they were simply two friends talking. _If only,_ Charles wished. Aloud, he conceded, "As far as anyone could interpret, yes, it is."

"We'll have to see that she comes by more often, then," Erik mused, watching Charles for a reaction. The geneticist tried to look grateful. "I take it that your time with our lovely Badger was less enjoyable for you, however."

"Yes, but I doubt saying so will get me out of seeing her in the future, so no; she's really quite… Enthusiastic, in her way."

This time, Erik's smile spread across his entire face. "You'll be running laps in no time," he reassured Charles. Then the expression slid out from beneath the helmet and vanished somewhere, leaving Erik to study his hands for a while in blank silence.

Just as Charles was considering clearing his throat, Erik's eyes snapped back up to meet his and he flashed his teeth in a feral grin. "Care to continue our game?"

_We're playing it already,_ Charles thought, genuinely confused until he recalled that they had a chess match left to complete. "Sure," he said, hoping he didn't sound too flustered as Erik gestured for the end table with the board to wheel itself over.

Charles managed to win the game, but when he found himself glad that for once Erik had stayed around for long enough to finish, the satisfaction of his success soured somewhat. As the table moved past him, the black king rolling around on its side, he snatched for it impulsively and set it back upright, resulting in a slightly confusing moment where all the pieces almost scattered anyway as the table jerked to a halt. Erik frowned at him, but Charles only shrugged, refusing to find the question in his eyes.

Before Erik left, he bent down, the edge of a single finger lifting Charles' face, and kissed him, formal and chaste—but not, Charles believed, because he himself kept his lips tightly closed. Instead, he thought it very much resembled the sort of kiss given by someone who knew where they could easily find another.

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	6. Chapter 6

Another long update! First of all, I love you guys. Seriously. Without you, this wouldn't be all that fun to write, and I've never reached 100 reviews before!

Soooo um, that said, this is pretty much allll story. And science. And quite a lot of plot. There will be sex in this _eventually_, I swear. Next chapter or the one after, maybe. Also, it _is_ going somewhere! For now, well, this world seems to be a strange fusion of the various canons from the different movies and the comics, because I needed more characters than just in _First Class_ and apparently Jean and Scott were some of the original X-Men.

Oooh, and I did _research_ for this chapter. Yep. All of the science contained within is based on research! Although very much ahead of its time obviously.

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**xxiv.**

Charles' relationship with Erik never ceased to confuse him. It had been his understanding that they would bargain for his small freedoms with favors and cooperation, but it did not seem to be as simple as Charles had thought. Certainly, Erik was at best an inconvenient guest to his personal space, and at worst an intruder Charles couldn't fight against.

Included in the latter category was the first time Erik tried to pick Charles up and move him onto the couch. He'd barely slipped a hand beneath Charles' knees before the telepath had frozen, seizing Erik's arms in a bruising grip, heart startled into racing. Charles had been stricken by the terrifying certainty that, once he was set down again, he _wouldn't be able to move_; that Erik would push the chair away, or it would roll on its own, or that he'd accidentally shove it and be forced to crawl along the floor toward it.

Erik had immediately abandoned his attempt, had wrapped his arms around Charles and muttered into his hair, promising that he would never abandon Charles somewhere he couldn't escape from. This did not stop Erik from trying again the next night, but he did succeed that and every following time. True to his word, the chair was never so far away that Charles couldn't reach it.

Erik's desire to have Charles next to him was not surprising; he could understand that the chair got in the way and was awkward, because in part he had been relying on that. Sitting next to Erik allowed for—and, at the thought, Charles found himself blushing a little—easy access, but Erik… Didn't seem to be inclined to take advantage of Charles, beyond the kissing. In fact, he seemed reluctant to make any further demands of the telepath.

This was best characterized by another instance, when Charles found himself half-leaning on Erik, unendingly aware of the hand around his waist and the way Erik's breath stirred his hair. Erik had been silent for a long while and, more importantly, still seemed unwilling to allow Charles anything more to do during the day; so, taking a deep, preparatory lungful of air, he had turned a little and reached for Erik's belt buckle.

Charles felt Erik turn his head, and was surprised when the man's fingers closed around his wrist before he even made contact. "Mm. None of that, Charles," Erik had murmured near his ear, quiet and tired, carefully placing the telepath's hand back into the lap of its owner.

This left Charles feeling almost more embarrassed than if he _had_ undone Erik's belt and done, well, anything that came after that. He was being used, but to what end? Certainly there was a sexual component—Erik didn't _always_ take advantage of his mouth, but when he did, it was pretty obvious that he enjoyed it. Charles could understand if Erik didn't want to view himself as someone who simply _took_ what he wanted, but then why refuse a direct proposition?

He tried not to be distracted by the scent of pine needles—of the _outside world_—on Erik's clothing, to wonder where he'd been, but if he closed his eyes he could imagine, to a point, that he was in that place: surrounded by trees on a warm day. It was astonishingly comforting thought despite its infeasibility, and Charles was surprised, upon opening his eyes again, to find that they still sitting in quiet, and that it was almost… _Companionable._

Could it really be as simple as Erik needing human contact?

Of course not. Nothing was ever that simple.

Wasn't it?

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**xxv.**

It took another week after Charles' first visit with Raven before he finally received permission to visit the labs. He'd imagined them as being some nebulous set of rooms located somewhere within the mansion—like the one he'd had, or maybe there'd be two—but they turned out to occupy roughly an entire _wing_. Past a thick set of steel doors, the floor was all close-fitted gray tile and water-proof trim, the whitewashed walls had been re-done in a sturdier material, and extra lighting had been installed at regular intervals—very regular, and stretching on for a very long ways.

The atmosphere was noticeably different from the rest of the house; bright and sterile compared to the old, yellowed glow of Charles' rooms. While this might have made the wing seem unwelcoming to another person, Charles felt instantly at ease; he understood the practical use of the place, appreciated the hygienic convenience of smooth tile.

Even just sitting in the hallway, Charles could feel himself responding to the environment, becoming someone else: someone who might have an experiment that needed attention _right now_ and yes, three-hour-intervals _did_ mean staying into early morning.

It was something of a relief.

The sound of air vents in the ceiling formed a constant hum of background noise as Charles coasted along the hallway, looking for the door he had seen in the mind of the lab tech who had been sent to invite him. Lab nineteen. He raised his fist and knocked, hard, unsure whether those inside would be able to hear through the thick door.

Charles waited, fidgeting a little with his hands, until finally the door swung inward and a young woman with tangled black hair and a white lab coat peered out at him as if she suspected he might be selling something.

"Can I help you?" she inquired, with a dainty sniff. When Charles continued to stare blankly at her, she shifted uncomfortably. "Um… Hello?"

Jumping back into motion, Charles beamed up at her. "Hello! Yes, I'm Professor Xavier, and I was wondering, is…" He faltered for a moment, unsure whether to ask, before continuing, "Is Hank around?"

Hannah—her name was Hannah—frowned at him doubtfully and took a couple steps back. "I'll check," she offered, clearly reluctant, and started to walk away.

Charles felt his hopes sink; he couldn't imagine that anyone could _not_ notice Hank, even in as large a lab as this. Still, he kept his smile firmly in place and called after the lab assistant, "Can I come in?"

Her eyes darted down to his hands and clothing. "You're not sterile," Hannah declared, but didn't protest when he moved the chair to a spot just inside the door. "Don't touch anything," she warned instead, and made her escape.

As soon as she had gone, the smile dropped off of Charles' face and he pressed a hand to his temple, eyes falling shut; the opening of the lab door had triggered an instant cacophony in his head, as none of the scientists working inside were wearing helmets. With some amount of shame, Charles found that he wasn't as good at blocking it out as he used to be, and the result was an instant headache.

Still, while it was uncomfortable, Charles took solace in the familiarity of what he heard; the gentle buzz of scientists at work, writing notes while their samples centrifuged and calculating concentrations for solutions, had not changed in the years since his own time in the lab. Slowly, although the pain behind his eyes didn't go away, it became manageable, and Charles felt the tension in his back ease.

With a jolt of pleasant surprise, Charles noticed a familiar pattern of thoughts churning within the chaos. He sent a flicker of his joy out and saw it echo there, a fleck of not-color immediately washed over by the recipient's own thoughts. Within moments Charles glimpsed an impression of himself through the other's eyes, and he felt a slow, involuntary smile tug at his own face.

"Hank," Charles greeted, looking up at the man. "You know, it seems as though you've gotten taller."

"Or your chair's lower," Hank replied, his thin black lips twitching upward. "Nobody calls me that anymore, by the way; you almost got stuck listening to the life story of the Hank who works in geomorphology."

"Oh. Oh, of course." Charles rubbed his legs absently; of late, they'd been overcompensating for their previous numbness by broadcasting a constant prickly awareness of the exact way his every single leg hair interacted with his trousers. "I should have known that."

Hank's—_Beast's_—furry head tilted, worry visible in the lines of his face, altered though they may be. "You're not used to this many minds at once anymore, are you?"

Warmly, Charles remarked, "You're just as perceptive as you used to be." He saw Beast's anger in the tightening of his pupils, the flaring of his nostrils, and added, "It's all right, I've got it under control."

"We manufacture the meta-materials used to cancel out telepathy," Beast explained, voice flat. "It's not all right."

Charles waved his hand. "Enough of that. What are you doing here? The last time I saw you, Alex and Sean were barely holding you back from ripping off Erik's head and killing us all."

Flexing his fingers as if he still very much wanted to rip off some heads, Beast growled low in his throat and responded, "Yes, and it would have been worth it. Still," his fur smoothed and Beast straightened, businesslike, "the best way I can help the world now is through science, and this is the only real lab left that doesn't just make weapons."

Steepling his eyebrows, Charles asked, "Just like that?"

"Well, _no_," Beast grumbled. "There was some intervening time, but what I said holds true, despite my… _Disagreements_ with Magneto's ideology. Science doesn't take sides, Professor; you know that."

Charles frowned, but didn't protest. Beast had always been fiercely pragmatic, even when he'd been Hank. "And the others?"

"Sean was injured, and can't use his power any more for the time being; at the moment, he's being kept at his cousin's estate in Ireland. Last I knew, Alex was roaming the countryside with—oh, here's something you'll like: Darwin's alive," Beast told him, shifting out of the way of a lab technician carrying a stack of Petri dishes.

"What, really?"

"Yes, as far as we can tell, his body converted into light. He only re-coalesced a few years ago; apparently photons don't experience time. I'd like to find out more but nobody really wants to do _that_ again and anyway it seems Darwin's teamed up with Alex and they're God-knows-where." Beast reached up onto a shelf and took down a box, from which he pulled a pair of thick plastic gloves labeled with black-lined tape; presumably, he used them because his claws broke through conventional gloves.

Beast sheathed his hands in the plastic and continued, "Several of the younger students are here, with me. Scott's a little too direct for biology, but he's becoming an excellent geographer. Jean's around, and so far she's refused every request to join the Brotherhood's army. Don't know where Bobby went."

"Nobody's dead, that you know of?" Charles inquired, setting his thumbs on the handrims of his chair.

"Thankfully, no," Beast replied, but added, tone darkening, "I tried to keep track of Moira, but I couldn't find her after the riots."

Charles nodded, unsurprised. When he'd erased her memories after Cuba, he'd tried to leave enough information to let her save herself if necessary. Still…"She's resourceful. I'm sure she's escaped somewhere. By the way, isn't it a bit of a risk to be talking about this sort of thing openly?"

His nose crinkling with amusement, Beast teased, "What, you ask me that _after_ the incriminating questions? But no, really—Magneto knows where I stand, and there are a lot of other anti-extinctionists around here. We're just not a threat at the moment."

"Because of Ms. Frost," Charles mused. "Only the people he trusts get the helmets."

Beast scoffed. "I've never met anyone he trusted. Only the people who can't _hurt_ Magneto get helmets. Speaking of which, you came by yourself, didn't you? I hope you knocked over some priceless artifacts along the way. How'd you convince him to let you come down, anyway?"

Despite his efforts, a smile crept onto Charles' face. "No, Beast, I didn't knock anything over." He didn't answer the last question, because he didn't know; he still wasn't certain what Erik wanted from him, but he had the idea that this visit was to make a point—to show Charles what he _could_ have.

Regardless, Charles wouldn't allow the impending threat of the unknown spoil his visit, so he showed none of these doubts when Beast grinned and beckoned him forward.

"Come," he said. "Let me show you my labs."

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**xxvi.**

"I suppose you've figured out by now that Magneto isn't the person you should thank for curing you?" Beast inquired, the tufts of his eyebrows raised in smug nonchalance.

"There weren't any names on the papers he sent me, but I assumed he probably didn't do anything more than frighten anyone who took an overly long lunch," Charles acknowledged. "I take it you were behind most of the research?"

"Oh, _no_." Beast waved his gloved hand, although he was very careful not to touch anything with it. "I come up with the brilliant ideas, I write preliminary experiments, then I move on to some other thing and read the results later. Most of what we study is new, so there aren't really any prior publications to consult, and there are plenty of more industrious people to take care of things like streaking plates and coordinating the centrifuge schedule. I do those things sometimes too of course, but there are so many things going on at once…"

"Your confidence has certainly improved," Charles remarked.

"I'm being entirely factual," the scientist protested, stopping in front of a rack of lab coats. "This lab would grind to a halt if I left. How are your legs, by the way? Sore?"

"Yes, actually," Charles admitted, glancing down to find that he'd started rubbing them again almost as soon as his hands were free. "They're not about to fall off, are they?"

"No, it's a good sign. Our data so far is limited, but a peak in sensitivity following recovery doesn't seem to be uncommon. Don't look at me like that—all of my subjects are volunteers." Charles didn't miss the slight emphasis on _my_. "Now, I assume you won't be walking for a while, so you'll have to put this coat on backwards." Beast held out one of the lab coats, and waited for Charles to shrug it on so that it covered his chest and legs. He himself already looked astoundingly refined in his long white jacket, the blue mane of his neck brushing over the collar.

Once Charles was appropriately attired, he followed Beast into a smaller room adjacent to the main. It was filled either with refrigerators or incubators, and judging from the ambient temperature, most likely the latter. Additionally, as soon as the door closed, the roar at the edge of Charles' mind retreated to the manageable babble of Beast's thoughts. For once, he didn't have to rely on seeing the quick glance the furred mutant gave him to know Beast had meant to restore his quiet, but Charles was surprised to find that he now looked to the man's face _before_ he looked into his head.

"This is your cell culture room," Charles observed before Beast could say it, just because he could. Two biosafety hoods sat dormant along one wall, sealing in their sterile air. "You can still tell me; I'd like to hear it."

"Right," Beast agreed cautiously. "As you said, this is our cell culture room. We have a couple different temperatures in here for different projects, but I wanted to show you this one." He picked up a box of latex gloves and held them out. "But first, gloves."

Charles plucked out a pair and worked his hands into them without touching their outside surface with his hands, then waggled his fingers at Beast to show that they were in place.

Beast surveyed Charles' hands critically before judging that he had done an acceptable job of something the geneticist already had years of practice with, and opened one of the incubators. The red numbers at the top of the machine began to fall as the heat escaped, but before they could dip too low Beast emerged with a little glass tray pinched between his covered claws.

"These are your cells. Well, not _your_ cells, of course, but their genetic clones are living in your spine," Beast told him, handing the six-welled tray to Charles, who was careful not to disturb the liquid within. "The research leading to the identification of stem cells came out of Toronto, but actually just _growing_ them was the hardest part. Once you get them started, though, they just keep dividing."

Charles peered into the tray; the middle two wells were filled with water to prevent the other four from drying out, and condensation beaded up along the lid. Still, he could see that the four end wells were partially filled with a reddish-pink liquid that reminded him of watery blood. Beast's mind informed Charles that the color was actually only phenol red dye added to monitor pH, and anyway the cells themselves only grew along the surface of the glass and the liquid was only nutrient broth, but the comparison stuck.

He frowned faintly; on the one hand, he was holding half of a miracle of biotechnology, years or perhaps decades ahead of its time; on the other, the murky fluid didn't seem like the natural subject for awe. "When I was in school, we couldn't get mammal cells to divide for more than a couple generations. What did you do?"

"Nothing," Beast admitted. "Stem cells are different. Although, did I mention it can take _years_ just to get the damn things to grow properly? We started growing human cells even before the mice had any kind of success, just because it took so long. Not to mention that, once they _do_ start growing, they'll spontaneously differentiate into some other kind of cell if you don't keep moving them to new plates."

"I suppose this is when I should thank you for your tireless work in bossing your lab techs around?" Charles asked with a sly curl to his mouth.

"No, bossing lab techs is its own reward, especially after all that time spent being one. Still, a little gratitude wouldn't be unwarranted. I _did_ develop the nanotubule scaffold myself, you know."

Charles held the tray out for Beast to take back. "You say 'all that time' as if you were a tech for more than a couple years. That said… Thank you. Even if I don't walk again."

Beast took the tray with a delicacy unpredicted by his appearance. "You will," he assured. "Some experiments take time. You know that."

"Indeed," Charles agreed, trying to ignore the words _potential sensory ataxia_ as they passed through Beast's thoughts; he might walk again, but there seemed to be a possibility that his brain may not be able to sense the position of his legs even if he did, requiring Charles to watch them at all times.

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence, which Beast broke with a hesitant "Charles…" before falling silent again.

"Ask," the telepath requested, stripping off his gloves in a way ensuring no part of his skin could be contaminated. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the used latex flying into one of the ever-present orange biohazard boxes.

"You're a hero to the anti-extinction movement," the leonine scientist told Charles. "Even when we didn't know where you were, we knew you were alive, and that simple fact has kept thousands of humans and mutants fighting; resisting. Most of them believe that you're the only one who can stop Magneto."

Charles' smile was faltering; he wanted to be grateful, but there was a dreadful flaw with that belief. "That's great, but I only have one weapon, and Erik's seen to it that I can't use my telepathy against him."

Beast's expression was insistent. "That's not your only weapon," he corrected. "He trusts you more than almost anyone else." Charles began to shake his head, but Beast cut in before he could object. "Still not entirely, true, but enough."

"Only because he knows I can't do anything to him," Charles said.

"Exactly," Beast confirmed. "You can't do anything to him _now_. If you had help, however; if you could attack him from some angle he doesn't expect… He won't see it coming."

"Except that Ms. Frost will read your mind and know that… Oh, no. I'm not doing that, it's very risky at this juncture and I'll have you know that, as of last month, it'd been years since I even _touched_ another mind, let alone manipulated one," Charles warned.

Beast did not appear to be appropriately frightened by this. "I have confidence in you. We've still never observed another telepath as powerful as you are. I'm not asking you to erase my memories, just—block them, for a little while. Frost doesn't have enough patience to go digging through all of our minds; if I'm not thinking about it when I walk by her, she won't find out."

"It's not that simple," Charles protested, attempting to explain the gravity of the situation with a broad hand gesture. "It's not like I have _settings_ or something. I can't just flip a switch from 'erase' to 'repress.'"

Charles was dismayed to identify the look Beast gave him as being pity. "You haven't forgotten how," Beast asserted. "You're Professor Charles Xavier, and as far as anyone knows, you're the most powerful telepath on the planet. I trust you."

Very slowly, Charles dragged his hands through his hair, exhaling through his mouth. Clearly, he was being ridiculous; he'd had his powers since he was a child, and wasn't about to forget how to use them within the span of a few years. "Okay. Well, I suppose we have no choice at this point anyway, do we?"

"No," the other scientist confirmed. He shifted uneasily, and Charles glanced down to see that Beast seemed to be wearing another set of gloves on his feet, ridged along the bottom for traction. The telepath was surprised to find that they didn't look all that bad, for being purely pragmatic concessions to the need for covered feet in the lab.

Beast cleared his throat. "So, um. What should I do? Should I do anything?"

Charles paused, moistened his lips, and settled his head against the fingers of his left hand. "Just… Don't move." He met Beast's eyes—feral and golden, making the nervousness there look absurdly out of place—and _pushed_, like pressing a fingernail into a grape and potentially as destructive; after a brief shock of resistance, Beast's mind welled up around him, a deluge of sensory information and memory and feeling and, arising from the mix of those things, _self_. It was chaotic, overwhelming, and disordered; this, however, was not a flood Charles could be swept away by.

Changing a memory wasn't straightforward; people did not store their memories in one place, or all at once, and then there were all the little things that tied into memory—scent, sound, and other experiences related to a recollection, built up on top of each other and woven together with more intricacy than any spider's web. Thankfully his conversation with Beast lay right at the edge, still mostly unrelated to everything else comprising Beast's mind, and it wasn't too hard to—not erase it, but _tuck it away_, and redirect the scientist's thoughts seamlessly around the incriminating memory; to excise even the _desire_ to have that conversation.

Pulling back, Charles became aware, again, of the hum of the incubators, the weight of his body in the chair, the almost electric touch of his fingers against his temple; and finally, the damnable itching of his legs. He blinked, and put his hand down. "Beast?" Charles inquired.

Beast, who had previously been looking _through_ Charles, shook himself a little and refocused on the telepath. "Professor. We also have some interesting work on cloning going on in the next room over; would you like to see?"

"Of course," Charles replied, a shiver of relief running through him. Blocking the memory hadn't been easy; certainly, it hadn't been as difficult as removing Moira's experiences of their brief time spent as the CIA's mutant division, but then she'd also built large swaths of her identity on that information during those few short weeks. Still, he'd been worried…

Without ever showing the slightest awareness that they might have talked about anything other than stem cells, Beast took him around the lab, introducing Charles to several of the techs and assistants and explaining their work to him. They spoke the language of science—an enthusiastic mix of abbreviations and jargon and fond nicknames incomprehensible to the casual observer—and for a while Charles felt at home.

That night, engulfed once more in rooms he increasingly viewed as being gloomy and oppressive, Charles sat across the chessboard from Erik, staring down at the pieces without really seeing them.

"What do I have to do to go back?" Charles asked, breaking the expectant silence. It was the first time either of them had said anything openly acknowledging their relationship.

Erik's little smile was crooked, and without looking up, he gestured down at the board for Charles to continue playing.

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	7. Chapter 7

Well, the details surrounding the ending scenes are slowly coming together, and so far it looks good! Not especially close yet, but, eh, well. I'll keep writing until I get there, because _I_ think it's going to be pretty cool.

The book _Bread and Wine_, by Ignazio Silone, is an anti-fascist, anti-Stalinist novel about an Italian who impersonates a priest in order to sneak back into Mussolini's Italy after being exiled. I'd like to say I had some amazing reason for choosing it, specifically, but mostly it's just that _Bread and Wine_ is one of the only books on my shelves that would have fit. I must have liked it, though, since I still have it!

Also the next update may not be for a little while again because I have a family thing this weekend in a place where I will have neither computer nor internet. Until then, thanks for reading. :)

Oh, PS, since I know dreams are sort of a trope in fanfiction: this one doesn't mean anything. It's just a dream. ;)

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**xxvii.**

The pain in Charles' legs only got worse; while far from agony, the constant ache was an unwelcome distraction from even the usual tedium of his day. The cause, of course, was Badger. Well, technically it was the result of exercising his lower extremities for the first time in five years, but blaming Badger made Charles feel better.

Complaining to Raven did not improve his mood, as she only laughed and remarked, "Oh, Magneto picked _exactly_ the right sort of evil taskmaster to keep you in line." Charles was forced to admit, reluctantly, that this might be true; after all, someone less abrasive and forceful would have had no chance of making Charles do anything he didn't want to do, and something about Badger's indifferent disdain and grudgingly dispensed compliments simply _worked_ on Charles. He didn't want to consider that Erik might have known the effect his handpicked therapist would have on him.

None of this made him any less grumpy, of course, but having a logical reason behind his frustration helped somewhat, as well as the fact that he could now actually lift his legs, if not yet actually bear any weight on them.

"You don't seem to be interested in the hazards of boarding Brotherhood soldiers in resistant cities. Something on your mind?" Erik asked that night, as they sat next to each other.

Charles, who had been running his thumb over the sharply crisp cover of the book Erik had brought him, glanced up to meet the man's eyes. They were very close, their knees brushing and Erik's arm along the back of the couch over his shoulders, but this was hardly new at that point. Instead, Charles matched Erik's gaze, looking for something there that might tell him in simple black-and-white terms whether Erik did in fact trust him.

There were no hints hidden within the gray and brown tangle of muscle fibers comprising Erik's irises, or in the subtle searching shift of his pupils. His eyes revealed no secrets, but rather seemed to devour them; Charles found himself caught by Erik's scrutiny, certain that Erik _knew_, as if _he_ were the telepath, what Charles had talked about with Beast; certain that at any moment Erik might lean forward and whisper, "_I know what you're up to, Charles, and it ends tonight._"

Charles could barely breathe; his thoughts were a useless scattered mess reeling in crazed circles and none of those shapes were fear, although they ought to have been. The only other occasions he'd seen Erik from this close had been when the other man was about to kiss him, and Charles knew what Erik looked like then. He didn't look like that now, but Charles found himself waiting for it anyway, and it wasn't until a touch to the back of his neck startled him into blinking that Charles realized he hadn't exhaled in—well, probably not all that long, but he had definitely been quiet for longer than was strictly polite.

"Are you all right?" Erik inquired, stroking down the side of Charles' neck with the hand he dangled from the back of the couch. Charles didn't make the mistake of looking into his eyes again, but saw Erik's frown.

"I'm fine," Charles began, then shifted his legs in a way he hoped didn't look too deliberate, making an entirely unnecessary noise of discomfort in his throat. "My legs hurt, is all, and it's very distracting. I don't suppose you could have Beth bring me something to take the edge off?"

What appeared to be honest confusion crept into Erik's expression. "But Charles, they're your _legs_; this is the first time you've felt them in years. You can't ignore them now." To emphasize his point, he wrapped the fingers of his free hand around Charles' scrawny thigh, just above the knee, and squeezed a little; this time, the pained grunt Charles made was entirely genuine.

Charles had meant to say something about how only an idiot would attempt to overdose on aspirin even if he'd been so inclined, but his carefully-considered rebuttal vanished in a gasp as Erik's hand shifted against his leg and then dragged slowly up along the inside of his thigh, the ache of his abused muscles mixing strangely with—well, _Charles_ hadn't been keeping track of the exact number of days since anyone had touched him like that, but his _body_, apparently, _had_.

Mouth suddenly bone dry, Charles tore his eyes away from his lap and looked up at Erik, whose attention was darkly speculative as he flexed his fingers around the curve of Charles' leg, the palm of Erik's hand warm through the fabric of his pants. _Don't go any higher,_ Charles pleaded silently, although of course Erik couldn't hear him; because if Erik continued, he'd know that certain parts of Charles, at least, weren't entirely disinterested.

Erik, however, didn't appear to find what he was looking for in Charles' face, and withdrew his hand to pluck the book from Charles' rather limp grasp while the telepath dropped his gaze down to Erik's red tunic, feeling of a kindred spirit with the garment because his face almost certainly matched its color.

"Would you like me to read to you?" Erik offered, tilting the cover to display the title. It was a gray-blue book with the words _Bread and Wine_ at the center in yellow, but those details didn't seem to matter compared to the fact that _Erik had just offered to read it to him_, proving that one or both of them had finally gone mad. Doubly so because Charles was fairly certain that _Bread and Wine_, while an anti-fascist work, was definitely _fictional_, which was somehow even more improbable.

"…_Sure_," Charles agreed, because there was really nothing else he could think of to say in response to that, and anyway he didn't feel up to conversation after being felt up. "Have you read it before?"

"Not yet," Erik replied, flipping open the pages one-handed. Charles doubted that Erik would bring him a book he hadn't first read, but didn't comment on it, watching as the other man located the first page and held the book open with his thumb.

Clearing his throat, Erik began, "_Don Benedetto, sitting on the low garden wall in the shadow of a cypress, was reading in his breviary…_" while Charles listened dutifully, wondering whether he'd recognize it if he actually did go insane. Wondering, not for the first time, whether Erik already had.

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**xxviii.**

When Charles dreamed, it rarely had to do with his own life. Sometimes they were fabrications: glimpses into strange fantasies or horrors. At others, they were patches of other people's lives.

He wasn't sure which this one was.

The forest was deadly—cursed, maybe, or spoiled with radiation, or contagion—and below, he knew, there were monsters, creations and creators of their habitat. He (_was_ he male in the dream?) didn't know what they looked like; maybe they were people, or beasts, or spirits, or all three. It didn't matter because he _did_ know what would happen if he was caught.

This didn't mean that Charles was frightened. Nervous, certainly, but not terrified; Charles could climb, could escape high above the danger. If he wished to, he could become an observer; a strange sort of wildlife ecologist.

Unfortunately, he had taken a fall, and every moment spent on the ground was like a dinner bell, loud in the gray calm. He could feel them out there, drawing closer, but every tree he tried to climb was smooth and slippery and—_oh_, this one had branches.

He was saved; he was up in the canopy and the shadows below milled with frustrated shapes (_strange to have an ecology consisting entirely of predators_, he thought). Then the wind began to gust, causing his perch to sway and buck, and Charles felt himself begin to slip—

Charles opened his eyes, confused to find that he was still shaking; a gentle rocking back-and-forth movement that he thought was in his mind until he heard the rattling. The window across the room was dark.

_Oh,_ he thought, eyelids drifting closed. _It's an earthquake. This is Canada..._

Moments later, Charles saw that there was faint gray light scattering in through the window. A dark shape loomed over him, and there was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. His own small earthquake.

Wait. _Not_ Canada.

"Erik?" he mumbled, blinking groggily. It was hard to tell shapes from people when he couldn't sense their thoughts. Also when he couldn't really see them.

"Charles," a voice that certainly _sounded_ like Erik replied. "I have to leave for a few days. Behave while I'm gone."

"What?" the telepath asked, dreadfully confused. Remaining conscious was difficult. "Where're you going?"

"Mystique will explain in the morning," Erik told him softly. "Go back to sleep."

"Oh," Charles sighed. He closed his eyes, felt Erik's nose cold on his cheek followed by warm lips; he grumbled and turned onto his side, burying his head into the pillow.

Then Charles sat straight up in bed, looking around the room frantically; he could see clearly, in the rich morning sunlight, that nothing was out of place.

Nothing was out of place, but there was a small white bottle of aspirin on his nightstand.

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**xxix.**

Raven surprised him by bringing Beast along with her to have breakfast in Charles' rooms. He didn't exactly have a table where they could all sit and eat, or really all that much in the way of seating, but once the chessboard had been moved they could set their cups on the end table—currently, therefore, the coffee table—and his two visitors held their bowls on their laps as they sat together on the couch.

The oatmeal wasn't as fancy as the meals usually prepared for Charles, and the tiny sprinkle of sugar—just barely enough to remind him of what it _could_ taste like if it was sweet—confirmed his suspicions that he ate better than nearly everyone else even within the mansion. He did not, however, mention this to his guests, preferring their company to luxury.

Beast peered around Charles' rooms incredulously. "What do you _do_ with all this space?"

"Not much," Charles admitted. "What's the news?"

"Some idiot's decided to start a new continent in the center of the Atlantic, apparently," Beast explained. "Which is excellent evidence for sea-floor spreading, but the atmosphere can't take the additional volcanism and there's no way the coasts can be evacuated in time to escape all the misplaced seawater."

"Magneto's mobilized the Brotherhood to prevent what damage they can," Raven continued, defensiveness creeping into her voice; Charles noticed that the pair, while they sat near each other, were not quite as close as he would have expected had their past romance found its conclusion in the mansion. "He thinks it was the same mutant responsible for the Traps; he's gone to try and stop her before she can do any more damage."

"You say that as if Magneto didn't ask for her help in the first place," Beast scoffed. "If he'd consulted a geologist before he asked someone punch a hole through the crust, he'd have known it was a terrible idea."

Raven turned her yellow-speckled gaze on Beast, and remarked coolly, "I'm sure he would have deferred to your expertise had you been present."

Charles refrained from rolling his eyes, concentrated, and propped his heels, one after the other, up onto the table, crossing them with a minimum of fumbling. It had the desired effect, and both Beast and Raven immediately ceased their bickering to exclaim over his progress.

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**xxx.**

Charles had thought it would be a relief not to see Erik for days, but really it only gave him less to do than he'd had before, as Raven could only visit so often and Beast, evidently, was not allowed unescorted into the wing where Charles' rooms were located. This would not have been so much of a problem except that the leonine scientist had to deal with renewed urgency in the search for a miracle technology to clear the skies, so his schedule rarely overlapped with Raven's.

Beast sent him notes whenever he had a moment, carried by Raven or Beth or on occasion helmeted people Charles' didn't know, and he read them eagerly despite the fact that they were no real substitute to _talking_ with the man. Worse, they often referenced papers Beast had apparently sent but which had not reached him, leaving Charles burning with unsatisfied curiosity. After informing Beast of their absence, the scientist switched to mentioning his research with a frustrating vagueness.

More than he wanted to hear about science, however, Charles wanted to continue his prior conversation with Beast and decide what to do about Erik. Despite everything he'd done, Charles certainly didn't want to see the ruler of the mutant regime _dead_, but surely the world would be a better place without Erik directing of it. Charles did not want to think about who the natural choice for world dominance would be after that.

Still, there remained the question of _how_; Charles didn't have his own drinks cabinet, so he couldn't offer Erik a drugged glass. Using a syringe to sedate him was impossible, as they had no metal-less needles and making one would look _more_ than merely suspicious. The idea that Charles might overwhelm him by brute force was laughable, and he'd dismissed simply reaching for the helmet as being too obvious. _Although…_

This was the reason he needed someone else to talk to about it, and right then, when Erik was gone, would have been perfect except that he never got to _see_ Beast without Raven around, if at all. Charles still _loved_ Raven, of course, but there was no denying that she wouldn't be pleased with that subject of conversation. She believed in the mutant utopia, even if neither of her companions did.

With little else to do, Charles finished the rest of the book Erik had begun reading to him. It took about two hours, and he found himself unable to hear the words in anything other than Erik's smooth voice. Charles wondered what Erik might have said about the ending; something about humanity being like the wolves circling in on a lone, defenseless mutant revolutionary, probably; once a constant threat, now hunted and poisoned almost to vanishing. While Charles was still sure that Erik had read it before—the book was simply too _Erik_ for him to have not—the other man had put on a good show of making remarks about the writing as if it were new to him.

After Charles closed the book, he sat for a while tapping the binding against his knee. The repetitive movement was a lot more soothing now that he could actually feel it, and necessary because the worse part was not the boredom—it was that Charles had begun to _worry_, and of all the people he _could_ have been worrying about, the man responsible for placing everybody's lives at risk in the first place didn't seem to be a productive outlet for concern.

Still… Still, there was that small, unaccounted-for kindness of the aspirin bottle, and the way his leg muscles were no longer driving him, metaphorically of course, up the wall. Charles wanted to think it had been Beth, but she never came into his room that early and he could easily think of one person who _had_, and had also known about his request.

Perhaps there was still good in Erik after all.

So, as the days passed—did "a few" mean _two_ or _three_ days?—Charles attempted to occupy himself as much as he was able, and tried to spend as little of that time as possible thinking about what would happen if Erik was killed while Charles was trapped in a manor full of warlike mutants immune to his telepathy. He _definitely_ didn't consider how he, himself, would feel about Erik's potential death somewhere out in the Atlantic.

Instead he wrote a list of ways to save the world—there was only one item, a large black _**?**_—and jotted down notes to Beast. Charles also, once, because he wanted to try it, pulled himself up using the bar next to his bed and, leaning a little against the mattress and with most of his weight supported by his arms, _stood_. His legs cramped up almost immediately and it was only a couple seconds before his knees began to shake out from his control, but Charles was grinning too widely to care.

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	8. Chapter 8

Hello again everybody! To make up for the time between updates, here's an extra-long one! It has tenderness! Lust! Intrigue! Violence! Oh, and quite a lot of plot. With this chapter, I think, the last of the major plotlines has been firmly established—there are three, or maybe four simultaneous plots going on, and now they're all here so it's a race to the end from here on out.

Hope you enjoy it, and thank you all again for reading, even though, yeah, that sex I promised you before? Still not happening for a while. I'll make it up to you though. ;)

ETA: Beta'd by LJ user idioticonion!

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**xxxi.**

Charles managed to get all the way across the sitting room before he realized he wasn't alone; Erik was sprawled over the couch, looking very much like he had decided to simply lie wherever he fell. He was dressed all in black, in a turtleneck for the first time that Charles had seen since… Well, for a very long time, and the only parts of him that stood out against the dark leather of the couch were his hands and the narrow shape of his face beneath the helmet.

"Erik," Charles managed, after a moment of breathless shock. "I didn't realize you had returned."

"I've been back for a couple hours," he replied, so softly that Charles had to move closer in order to understand him. As he did, he saw that the other man's eyes were shadowed, and Erik's face seemed in places to be a bit darker than accounted for by the helmet. "It's an unholy commotion back by my rooms."

Still edging forward cautiously, Charles asked, "How did it go? You went to stop that mutant who manipulates volcanism, right?"

Erik let his head drop back onto the cushions and exhaled heavily. "Well enough; at least the new air filters stand up to field testing." He gestured carelessly for Charles to bring himself next to Erik, into the space where the end table had not yet been replaced.

Supposing he was lucky Erik didn't simply pull the chair wherever he wanted with his powers, Charles wheeled over, backing himself in at an angle so that he could easily look over at the other man. His brakes levered down before he could reach for them, so instead Charles laced his fingers together in his lap. From up close, the little cuts and bruises on Erik's skin were obvious.

Erik watched him from beyond the line of his helmet, unmoving, before remarking, finally, "It must be disturbing, not being able to sense when someone's in the room with you."

Charles tensed, searching Erik's tone for ulterior motive before deciding, reluctantly, that there probably wasn't one. But how to answer? _There are no words,_ he wanted to say, but settled for "It is."

Lips tightening almost imperceptibly, Erik gave a tiny nod. "Some day, maybe," he promised vaguely. Something unfamiliar glinted in his eyes, but Charles didn't trust himself not to interpret emotions that weren't there.

"Did you kill her?" he asked instead, voice hard. Charles' insides twisted a little; he wasn't sure which answer he wanted.

Erik fell into deliberate silence before reaching for Charles' hair with one hand. "You need a hair cut," he observed, curling Charles' increasingly whimsical fringe around his finger.

The telepath pulled his hair out of Erik's grasp with a disinterested twist of his head and pinned the other man with his regard. "Well?"

Erik sighed and lowered his hand back to his knee. "No. I don't think so."

"Oh." It hadn't been one of the answers Charles had prepared himself for; for some reason, he had been certain that Erik would simply be able to stride out into battle and surmount whatever difficulties he found there. That he hadn't was somehow worse than any of the bloody scenarios Charles had been able to manufacture.

"Why did you come to my rooms?" Charles inquired, and it was almost an accusation.

The corner of Erik's mouth lifted. "Charles," he chided gently, as if that was the only response he needed to give.

A tight frown on his face, Charles leaned over, his hand extended; Erik recoiled and seemed about to swat Charles away, but froze with his elbow raised and allowed the telepath to splay his fingers over the fabric of the turtleneck. Charles felt the smooth slide of cloth over bandages. "Dammit, Erik," he muttered.

Erik's hand covered his own and lifted it away, a wry smile on his face. He set their hands down on the couch's arm rest and kept them twined there. "I don't think I can be blamed for this one."

Charles dropped his eyes from Erik's face to their hands; Erik's thumb lay light on the inside of his wrist and there was a pulse there, fluttery and fast. He couldn't be entirely sure whether it belonged to himself or Erik, because it didn't _feel_ like the sort of rhythm his heart would beat, but if that was the case then it seemed even less like anything Erik might have in his chest.

Charles experienced a sort of vertigo, as if he were looking at something that _might_ have been, had circumstances been different: a juxtaposition of reality and possibility. Here, Erik and Charles manipulated and feared each other; _there_, they held hands and enjoyed the warmth of each other's company, exchanging pointless banter. For a moment he could see both; could feel what it would be like if he could relax in Erik's presence even while he rejected the very idea as absurd. It was Schrödinger's domesticity, perhaps, and Charles was afraid to examine it too closely because if he did, it might all fall apart and he'd be trapped with a truth he didn't like.

But of course, poor Erwin had never _actually_ experimented on cats, and so it was that the only real feeling that mattered to Charles at that moment was the pain of knowing that his life for the time being wasn't his, no matter how tempting it might be to pretend otherwise. Charles pulled his hand away; Erik's grip squeezed tighter for a brief instant and then he was freed.

Erik looked away, at the misplaced end table. "I had Ms. Frost check everyone in the lab for telepathic manipulation," he said finally, his voice strangely flat.

Charles felt his breath stumble in his throat. "Oh?" It had been a test. Of course it had been a test.

Erik smiled. "She didn't find anything. I think perhaps you're ready to start attending Brotherhood meetings again, only—" he brushed his fingers against Charles' temple, a casual gesture that nonetheless made the telepath shiver— "this time, without the blindfold."

Charles glanced up, quick and suspecting. "You're sure?"

The other man's fingers returned to Charles' head to weave through his hair, cradling the curve of his skull. "Of course," Erik assured him, a scabbed-over cut on his face dimpling with the gentle curve of his lips.

Charles met his eyes and slowly raised his hand to Erik's, holding it in place. _He trusts you more than almost anyone else_, Beast repeated in his mind. Charles was sure that Erik knew better than to accept Emma Frost's findings as truth; was certain that Erik suspected, on some level at least, that Charles might be capable of hiding something even from another telepath. Still, for whatever reason… For whatever reason, Erik seemed willing to accept that possibility, for now, and maybe even to dismiss it.

Somehow, this did not bring him any comfort.

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**xxxii.**

All of Charles' tenuous optimism from the previous night suddenly seemed foolishly misplaced.

"You said I wouldn't be restrained this time," he protested, his fingers drifting unconsciously to touch the top button of his shirt, reaching for something that wasn't yet there.

"I said that your _powers_ wouldn't be restrained," Erik corrected. "Besides, Charles, this is more symbolic than practical."

Charles eyed the fluid drape of gold lying over Erik's fingers; he could certainly admit that it was symbolic, yes, but the unavoidable comparison wasn't to anything pleasant. In fact, the word that sprang to mind was _collar_, although offered from anyone else it would only be a rather gaudy necklace.

With a flick of his wrist, Erik sent the chain to hover expectantly near Charles' hand, and the telepath plucked it from the air reluctantly; it went limp in his grasp, freed of the force that had galvanized it moments before. Charles held it as he would a snake, without really closing his grasp over the chain; allowing it to rest undisturbed over his fingers.

"No matching earrings, Erik?" Charles asked, arching an eyebrow. He made no move to put it on.

A crease formed on Erik's forehead; then he smiled. "I'm not going to _strangle_ you with it, Charles." Charles, however, could remember perfectly well that Erik had strangled people with less, so he arched his eyebrow further and stared at Erik until the other man glanced away. "All right, yes, it is a precaution—but _only_ a precaution. I don't intend to use my powers against you, and I don't expect that you'll make it necessary. This is, however, the only way you're getting into that room with your telepathy unobstructed."

Charles turned the chain over in his hands; the links were flattened and, while not _very_ wide, still quite a bit larger than he deemed appropriate for a man to wear. Then again, Erik was wearing a cape and a magenta—_no, be polite_, maroon—helmet while Charles was otherwise dressed impeccably in a gray suit, so at least he could rest assured that he wouldn't be the silliest-looking person there. That wasn't Charles' biggest concern, of course, but then it wasn't as if he could complain about dignity and propriety _now_, or as if there weren't a million other ways Erik could hurt him if he really wanted to.

Still, it galled a little to unclasp the chain and wrap it around his neck, especially when he couldn't get it put back together again and he had to twist it around to see what he was doing. This, Charles thought as he fumbled with too-short fingernails, was exactly the sort of thing Erik could have done for him without even trying, except that the other man wasn't even watching anymore; was instead looking through papers.

Finally, Charles found himself wearing a necklace, and with a little grimace of distaste he dropped it safely beneath his shirt. As luck would have it, though, Erik chose that moment to return his attention to Charles.

"No," Erik said, raising his hand; the chain had no sooner touched Charles' chest before it was slithering up again, cold and ticklish against his skin. "It needs to be visible." With a few deft twitches, the metal slipped under Charles' shirt collar; tucking his chin down, the telepath observed that it made a bright but unobtrusive U-shape against the white of his shirt—unobtrusive, but still in his opinion a bit tawdry.

Charles looked up at Erik to remark something to that effect, but his mouth froze when he saw that the other man's eyes were still fixed on the gold, dark and intent, lips in a grim line of self-restraint and—_Oh_, Charles realized, swallowing saliva that wasn't there, _he likes the control_.

Erik's gaze followed the bob of his throat, traced the line of Charles' jaw, and met the geneticist's stare. Charles wanted to say something witty, or anything at all really, but in the face of Erik's unshielded _want_ and with metal mere inches from his throat, he felt suddenly not at all like a force to be reckoned with and instead turned to checking that his handkerchief was folded correctly in his breast pocket. It was just barely distracting enough that he managed to ask, "_Now_ are we ready?"

He saw Erik nod, and this time when he looked up Erik's eyes were cool and remote; professional.

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**xxxiii.**

The conference room was on the first floor, and as the stairs drifted by under Charles he thought that, if he'd been more of a gambling person, he could probably manage to escape down them some night, using his improved mobility to lower himself from step to step. From there, he might be able to enlist someone without a helmet to help him out of the mansion, and possibly even off the grounds entirely.

Of course, the problem lay in the fact that this was a well-traveled stairway and, even if he didn't meet someone wearing a helmet on the way out, the empty chair at the top of the stairs would certainly betray his activities.

Still, it was interesting to see the main part of the mansion again, now that Charles had something to compare it to; he had previously considered the décor to be barren, but now Charles recognized it as Erik's unique style of utilitarianism: spare, but elegant. The granite floors were hard and resilient, and the trim looked to be the sort of wood that didn't burn or splinter easily. Similarly, there were no convenient alcoves or protuberances of furniture for an invading enemy to hide behind, or heavy objects that might be used as weapons; nor were there priceless artifacts for Erik's own people to worry about destroying.

Charles liked being among people again; while everyone in the hall gave them a wide berth and averted their eyes politely, he was nonetheless thrilled to find that he recognized many of them from his window, more tired and work-worn from up close. Even though he could not, for the most part, read any of their minds, he still felt as if he knew them and could conceivably be going to the same places they were, despite the relentlessly obedient glide of his chair beneath Erik's power.

He was surprised, almost, to realize that he was in a good mood; he was seeing new places again, seeing new people, and while it was an illusory, cheap happiness, it was still more than he'd had before and Charles treasured it for the time being. He didn't even protest when Erik leaned down to instruct him, in hushed tones, to call him Magneto in front of his followers.

This pleasant frame of mind made his entrance into the conference room a jarring shock. He had a moment to register nearly two dozen mutants seated at a long, wide table, then they saw him—_shockfearangerbetrayal_—and Charles had to fight not to cover his head with his hands, not to gasp, not to show any reaction because he was _Charles Xavier_ and everyone here knew it, and _knew_ that he knew it.

"What is the meaning of this, Magneto?" one Brotherhood mutant growled, pushing up out of his chair with a harsh screech of metal on stone. He was the mutant who had slighted Charles at his last attendance, now bristling with eerily silent feelers of electricity, eager for a target. Charles knew now that he went by the remarkably humble codename of Zeus. "Have you gone insane, bringing that—that _telepath_ in here?"

One of the problems with being in a wheelchair was that it was difficult for Charles to look at people standing next to him without appearing unsubtle and overly curious, but he could hear Erik's supreme disdain through his voice.

"This _telepath_," Erik began, placing a hand on the back of Charles' chair, "is our guest, and has agreed to observe only, for now. Please treat him accordingly."

"And you _trust_ him?" Zeus replied, aghast. The metal of his recently vacated chair popped and sparked as the electricity found it. "You trust this _sympathizer_ not to wipe our minds and plant ideas in our heads?"

Before Erik could respond, Charles spoke. "I've made concessions in order to be here today," he explained, ostensibly to Zeus but for the rest of the room's occupants as well. Charles reached up to his shirt collar and plucked at the gold links. "As you can see, I have extended some trust of my own as well. You're quite safe."

The angry mutant glowered, but the tendrils of energy curling along his skin shrank and receded into an uneasy flicker of light darting between the buckles of his leather jacket. Another Brotherhood member—one of those who gave lie to the "brother"—draped her arm over the back of her chair and remarked, dryly, "Zee, honey, relax. If you have an intelligent thought, we'll all know it isn't yours."

She cackled delightedly as Zeus' flare of electricity caught his own pen on the table, the ink inside boiling and bursting out onto the wood. _She can perceive and manipulate low-frequency electromagnetic radiation,_ Charles observed, intrigued. She referred to herself as Infrared despite—ironically, Charles thought—working primary with radio wave surveillance.

"If you have all reassured yourselves of my competence, I do believe we had a meeting planned for today," Erik stated, an edge of irritation to his voice. It was a testament to how seriously the assembled mutants took the implied threat that they all immediately quieted and settled back down into their chairs.

Erik nodded once, satisfied, and strode toward the head of the table where a single, somewhat more ornate chair overlooked the assembled mutants. Without raising his hand past his waist, he gestured for Charles to follow; surprised that his chair didn't leap to Erik's bidding, Charles hesitated before moving to a spot near the Brotherhood leader's side, an impersonal distance between them.

There, sitting in clear view of the world's ruling mutants, Charles felt exposed, but not embarrassed; he might have, with the necklace—_collar_—around his neck, but by speaking up before Erik he had made it a point of pride rather than shame. Charles caught a quick glance from that other man; Erik's eyes darted down to the chain before meeting his own, glinting with subtle amusement. Charles couldn't resist the triumphant smirk he felt twitch onto his face.

Despite his determination to remain aloof, Charles found himself fascinated by the proceedings; he had spent the previous meeting confused and off-balanced, certain that he was missing undercurrents and meanings even beyond the jargon—like he'd been looking into a pond, _knowing_ that there was life beneath the water, but only capable of seeing glimpses through the reflections at the surface.

Now he could see all of it, could perceive all the little petty rivalries and one-upsmanship and maneuvering, and while it wasn't exactly _heartening_, it did add a new dimension to what was an otherwise boring meeting.

"Skink, tell me about the preventative measures along the coasts," Erik ordered, and a dark mutant partially-covered with patches of glossy black scales leaned forward, one human and one clawed hand compulsively straightening the papers before him.

"As we all know, the mutant workforce is limited to paid volunteers and criminals, and while we attempt to divide useful abilities equally between companies…" Skink rasped, the pointed tips of his tongue darting nervously during pauses.

"Yes, I know you have bad news, or we wouldn't be here today." Erik picked out an incriminating report from those arrayed before him and displayed it to the mutant briefly. "Where were we hit hardest?"

Skink looked down, through a miniscule pair of reading glasses, and began, "Parts of West Africa and Morocco, of course, have almost no Brotherhood presence or warning system and were very badly affected. Local efforts prevented a significant amount of damage on the Canary Islands…" and so on, through Portugal ("bad") back down to South America ("heavy damages"), through to the West Indies ("very bad") and along the coastal United States ("not good").

New York City, apparently, had been neglected as "no one's supposed to be living there anyway," and the less populous regions of Maine and Nova Scotia had also been largely overlooked. There was no estimated death toll because there was no way of knowing who had lived in any of those regions in the first place, or of just how much damage the relative scale of bad-to-not-good entailed.

Erik didn't sigh, but he looked as if, had there been fewer people watching him, he might have liked to. "Restoration measures?"

Skink licked his lips. "Slow. We're getting overwhelming reports of destruction from all along the coastlines. Contaminated water, spoiled food, lack of habitation… We simply don't have the ability to relieve all of that. I recommend full evacuation from coastal city centers while repairs are made."

"And how long will repairs take?"

The scaly Brotherhood officer looked around, waiting for someone else to reply; eventually, there was some unenthusiastic hemming and hawing from a variety of mutants farther down the arms of the table, all of them reluctantly in charge of roads or agriculture or water. None of them could say for sure when they could get anything done, but they all admitted a readiness to use emergency funding in order to get work started quickly—although in some of those instances, Charles knew, little of that emergency funding remained, and could perhaps be viewed in more tangible form at their places of residence.

Eventually talk turned to where refugees would go if they were evacuated, and the consensus seemed to be that the closest viable alternatives for most of the major North American and Portuguese cities were the human shanty towns located miles inland, displaced during the first few years of the war.

"They're not just going to let a bunch of us walk in there and take over their shacks, or eat their food," Zeus scoffed.

Skink peered at him severely over his spectacles. "In terms of convenience, it's our best solution. Regulation mandates that all authorized human settlements are easily accessible by road, and certain water availability guidelines must be met in order to qualify for Brotherhood protection and jobs."

"I repeat," Zeus began, "_they're not going to let our people live with them_. Those 'towns,' if you can even call them that, are hotbeds of resistance. You're asking for trouble if you want to move mutants into those places."

"What's your solution?" Erik inquired, leaning on one arm of his chair, regarding Zeus with a single-mindedness that was almost a challenge.

"Not so different," he replied, raising a hand to scratch absently beneath his jacket with gnarled fingernails. "I say if it's going to turn to fighting—which it will—we strike first. Let the humans take whatever they can carry and go back to their old cities. Maybe they'll even patch up the places for us, save some effort on our part."

The scaled mutant frowned, and commented, "That wouldn't happen. There's a reason we're discussing evacuation, and that's because the coast isn't just unpleasant: it's _unlivable_. Anyone we send there to fend for themselves will almost certainly die, and then we'll have to clean up _their_ bodies, too."

"And the problem with that is…?" Zeus asked, raising a sloppy eyebrow at Skink.

"Our first priority is mutant life," Erik reminded them, straightening in his chair. "It's our obligation to save our own kind first, where possible."

Charles darted an alarmed look over at the Brotherhood leader, an irrational flash of betrayal jolting through his chest; of course, he hadn't _forgotten_ what Erik had done in the past, but this was almost too unreal, too perfectly insidious. "Erik, I'm afraid I must interrupt—"

Erik twisted to glare at Charles, and the words faltered in his throat at the sharpness of Erik's eyes. "_Charles_," he drawled pointedly, "that's not the name you use at this table."

Sensing that there wasn't a person in the room looking anywhere else but at him, Charles froze for a moment, then grinned hesitantly and laughed, a little. "Don't be silly, Erik, I—"

The movement at his throat was unexpected—a sudden invasive pressure to either side of Charles' neck and while it didn't hurt, while he could still breath, he felt his pulse strong and frantic beneath the metal as his vision narrowed to black and _oh, carotid arteries, blood flow to the…_

…_Brain._ Charles' face pressed into the table. He didn't remember falling, but judging by the way the wood hadn't yet warmed to his cheek, it must not have been long ago. Erik's hand gripped the back of his neck, pinning Charles down, and the shock of the other Brotherhood members permeated the air. Cautiously, he sought out the memory of his unconsciousness, and found it easily; not long ago at all, then. He'd only passed out for a second.

Charles had fallen—or been guided—so that he could see Erik, who leaned far over in his chair, almost lying on the table in order to get as close to Charles as he could without getting up. Rather than look absurd, he more closely resembled some sort of large, leonine cat, coiled over its prey.

Erik's face pressed near, alarmingly feral; Charles couldn't breathe and it had nothing to do with the chain around his neck. "_Here,_" he hissed, "you call me _Magneto_. Do you understand?" His fingers jabbed painfully under Charles' skull to emphasize his question.

The telepath winced and attempted, more reflexively than purposefully, to sit up, to no avail. Dimly, he realized that this little exchange had probably rendered his previous bid for respect among the Brotherhood members useless. "_Perfectly_," Charles grunted, and Erik's grasp loosened but didn't ease. "My mistake; won't do it again—I just thought you should know: killing off the humans is a bad idea."

Erik seemed interested enough to stop digging his fingers into Charles' neck, but he kept his hand in place, effortlessly preventing Charles from righting himself. "I feel certain that I've heard those words from you before, _old friend_. Did you think interrupting me to say it again would make a difference?"

Charles tried to moisten his lips without also licking the table. "Well, no, I mean, that too, but now—killing the humans would be bad for _you_—us—this time, as well."

Studying Charles' face silently, Erik's eyes narrowed in consideration; then, finally, he released the telepath and settled casually back into his chair. "Explain."

Straightening, Charles brought his hands up to his shirt collar, which had been popped up by the chain's movements, and folded it back down again, tucking the edges under his suit coat with hands that weren't quite shaking. He resisted the urge to rub his neck, but he did brush the hair out of his eyes. Taking the time to re-order his appearance, Charles thought, would make it seem more like he had a choice in his actions.

Eventually Charles cleared his throat and began, "You can't kill the humans because you need their genetic material."

There were muffled chuckles from the length of the table. Infrared, who had been silent through the rest of the meeting, covered her mouth with her hand and whispered to her neighbor, "'Human-lover' in word _and_ deed, apparently; this'll be good."

Charles glanced around the table, allowing his exasperation to show, before again meeting Erik's gaze, continuing, "There are, what, a little more than three million mutants living in the United States alone? More in Europe, more in Asia; a large potential population in Africa… Despite everything, there are still quite a lot of us in the world."

Erik dipped his chin in a short nod, his eyebrows furrowing at Charles' seemingly self-defeating argument.

"All right, now tell me, how many functioning airports do we have? How many airplanes? How many _cars_, or fuel to power any of our vehicles?" Charles asked, lacing his fingers together on the table. He paused, to make his point. "Factor that in with the fact that each of the previously highly-developed continents have areas of impassible destruction, and that leaves us with small, isolated pockets of civilization, cut off from transportation and migration."

"Are you ever going to have a point?" Zeus asked, affecting a mocking awe. Erik silenced him with a short movement of his hand without turning his attention from Charles.

The geneticist took a deep breath, scanned the thoughts of his audience, and decided he might as well skip to the end of his lecture. "My point is that we're vulnerable to genetic drift. If not for the radiation, this wouldn't be a problem, but because of increased mutation rates and small population size, harmful mutations—mutations that hurt the people born with them, or worse, those around them—will spread throughout these isolated areas within a few generations, no matter how quickly you manage to rebuild.

"Unless we bolster our numbers by accepting humans back into our society, we'll be extinct within four generations. Maybe less," Charles concluded.

The room was silent, except for someone's soft curse.

Erik frowned, scrutinizing Charles' expression. "Are you telling the truth?" he asked.

"Magneto," Charles replied, the name strange and awkward on his tongue, "this isn't anything you haven't heard at one of these meetings before. Beast gave you a similar report two months ago."

Erik gave Charles one last long look before turning back to the table, evidently finished with the conversation. "We'll instruct refugees to travel to nearby human settlements," he asserted. "And… Extend offers of compensation to the humans, as well as our appreciation for their assistance, in advance."

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	9. Chapter 9

Hello all! Sorry for the long delay, but I had a good reason—I went to California and attended San Diego Comic Con! I technically had this ready to go before I left last week but I was in a rush so couldn't post this at the time. That's okay though because that means that you're getting another update either later today or early tomorrow!

So I hope you are pleased with this chapter, and that it satisfies your various expectations after the events last time. ;) There are a couple of books mentioned in here—_the Great Gatsby_, I think, doesn't need explaining, but the other two maybe deserve it (and then there's a fourth that isn't exactly a book).

_The Dying Earth_ is a book by Jack Vance, which can now be found in a four-book collection, _Tales of the Dying Earth_. It's about a far-future sci-fi/fantasy world and his imagination is boundless. I recommend it, with the disclaimer that some of the views contained are a bit quaint by today's standards.

_Die Verwandlung _should be familiar—it's the original title of Franz Kafka's _the Metamorphosis._ Apparently the differences in German and English sentence structure severely impact the translation.

Lastly, thank you to my shiny new beta, LJ user idioticonion! She beta'd the last chapter too, but was not at the time officially my beta, so I shall go back and edit that.

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**xxxiv.**

Charles said nothing on the way back to his rooms, to the point where even Erik, to whom quiet came naturally, seemed to feel the need to fill that void.

"It's remarkably difficult to find intact records these days," he was saying, pushing Charles' chair along beside him. There was little activity in that part of the manor during the middle of the day. "Especially music suitable for dignified occasions. It never occurred to me that we might run out of records, or that I'd miss the sound of music in a room."

Charles maintained his carefully cultivated, meaningful silence. He didn't look up to see whether Erik truly appeared as nostalgic as he claimed, never mind that Charles had never before heard him admit to regretting the loss of any part of the old world.

They arrived at the door to Charles' quarters, and it swung open untouched. Drifted, just as ghostly, to a close behind them.

Erik took them into the main part of the sitting room and remained standing a discreet distance away as Charles began to tear at the chain around his neck, no longer caring which direction his shirt collars pointed, growing increasingly frenetic as the clasp slipped out from under his nails again and again.

Finally, it snapped open without Charles' help and fell into his hands. He wanted to throw it as hard as he could and hear it fall where he could never reach it again, but of course there was nowhere that Erik couldn't simply summon it back from. Instead, Charles squeezed it tight in his fist, as if he were crushing the links together into a solid lump.

"Charles…" Erik began softly. In the hall his presence had been huge and commanding; now he hung thin and tired.

The telepath pinned Erik with a tight-lipped stare, and while Charles didn't sneer or narrow his eyes or do anything other than _look_ at him, the other man swayed back a little. "Do you think I don't know this conversation, Erik? Do you think that in all my years around other people, hearing their thoughts, _even as a child_, I never encountered anyone who had been hit by their—by their man, only to be told that it would never happen again? Do you honestly think you can _apologize_ and do something sweet for me to prove your sincerity, and that it will work?"

Erik had been looking down at the amber swirls of the hardwood floor as Charles spoke, but now he glanced up to meet Charles' hard blue eyes. "I wasn't going to apologize."

Charles gaped at him, trying and failing to say any number of things before settling on, "You weren't going to—are you trying to tell me you didn't do anything _wrong_? Are you that far gone?"

The smile on Erik's face was grim and mirthless. "I'm not an idiot, Charles, or a child. I know what I did, and I've been crueler for worse reasons."

"You _strangled_ me," Charles stated, as if maybe the other man had forgotten, "until I passed out."

Erik frowned. "No, I only restricted the blood flow to your brain for a moment; you weren't in any danger."

Charles flicked his hand to signal that this was beside the point. "Even if that were true—there was no way for you to know that I didn't have a weak spot in my brain that might have ruptured—what you did was a breach of my trust and my personal freedom."

Nodding slowly, Erik agreed, "Yes, it was. I didn't think I'd need to do that."

"Oh, so it's my fault, is it, _Magneto_? If only I'd been a better lackey, you wouldn't have had to knock me out and pin me to a table?"

Erik had the grace to wince. "You don't… It's not your fault, Charles. I shouldn't have expected you to remember, after letting you call me by my old name all this time."

Charles chuckled bitterly and turned his head away, unable to bear looking at the other man's face anymore; at the little lines of pain at the corners of Erik's eyes. "Well, I guess it's time we fixed that, isn't it?"

"No." Erik's voice was unexpectedly sharp. "Out there, I'm Magneto. I have to be; I don't have a choice. Here, with you, I can be Erik."

"You have a choice," Charles murmured, almost more to himself. "There's always a choice."

"No," Erik replied, just as quietly. "There's not."

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**xxxv.**

Erik didn't come to visit that night. Charles wasn't sure whether Erik was avoiding him or if it was simply that they had already seen each other earlier that day, but he was glad of the reprieve.

Charles didn't know if he had the strength for another argument.

He wanted to be furious; he wanted to hold onto that feeling of rage, the desire to throw things and deface the priceless paintings in his rooms and to thrash around on his newly sensitive legs until he hurt himself, but… But anger was Erik's thing, and he had already taken all of it that there was in the world and spent it on a war he couldn't afford.

The only thing left for Charles to feel was weariness.

Weariness for his own helplessness, weariness at always having to _guess_ what Erik was going to do next; Charles was tired of fear and uncertainty. He was exhausted by the whole damned mess, and as he sat in the gentle gloom of his room, looking through the wood of his desk at the necklace hidden in the drawer, a decision turned slowly through his mind.

He could believe Erik. In fact, Charles _did_ believe Erik; he could accept that the other man had a script to follow, no matter his personal inclinations. Charles could guess what would happen if Erik forgot his role in front of the Brotherhood members; some of them, he knew, followed the figure of Magneto out of genuine loyalty, but many of them truly had no better goal than furthering their own self-interests.

Charles felt that he could forgive Erik for his outburst of violence, but what Erik seemed unwilling to admit was that the entire intricate dance of deceit and intimidation in which he claimed to be trapped had been of his own design. The world was being re-built according to Erik's rules whether he wanted it that way or not, and the more of that future Charles saw, the more horrified he became.

And so, as night fell and darkness settled through his rooms, Charles sat silent and still in the golden light of his desk lamp and decided to stage a coup.

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**xxxvi.**

The next night, Charles was surprised to hear a knock at his door; thinking vaguely that it must have been Raven come to ask for her copy of _the Dying Earth_, Charles bade the knocker to enter.

Instead it was Erik, carrying a book of his own; his typically confident smile showed an edge of hesitation as he stood poised in the foyer, evidently waiting for Charles to invite him in further. This was in sharp contrast to that morning, when he had simply strode in to collect the telepath for another Brotherhood meeting, scrutinizing Charles to see that he had already put on the necklace and looked presentable.

Erik had never previously knocked, but while Charles guessed that this new development was an exaggerated attempt to allow him his privacy, he was also beginning to see the lines between Erik and Magneto. Both men wore the same clothing, but the man who lingered outside his sitting room was a vastly different person than the one who had effortlessly disregard Charles during the meeting. Charles wondered if Erik had accentuated the differences for his sake.

"Come in," Charles requested, backing away his chair as if Erik could be drawn forward by diffusion alone. The power to refuse Erik felt strange and unwieldy; for his purposes he required Erik's presence, but Charles wondered whether that control was real or illusory.

"I brought a new book," Erik explained, holding it up. "I assume you won't have waited for me to finish the other." The corners of his lips curled upward, then his gaze slid away from Charles' as if he worried that mere eye contact might be construed as a threat. As Erik unclasped his cape and slung it on the coat rack, Charles fought the urge to smile; despite his promise not to apologize, the other man seemed determined to make the attempt.

The meeting that day had been strange, even aside from the sharp memory of what the wood of the table felt like on his face. Charles had expected to be sneered at or mocked by the other Brotherhood members, but instead he had been… Ignored. Mindful of the collar around his neck, Charles had cautiously reached out from mind to mind, probing gently for an explanation.

What he'd discovered had been shocking; rather than ostracizing him, Charles' domination by Erik had made them _more_ accepting of his presence—to their minds, he'd become a known quantity, and their blind fear had been replaced by the same wariness with which they regarded each other. In fact some of them, Zeus included, believed that Charles had gotten off _lightly_, proving once and for all that this was simply the way politics worked now.

This was unsettling, but Charles had not and did not plan on mentioning it to Erik, who settled himself on the couch with a stiffness that puzzled the telepath until he recalled that it had only been days since the other man's injury. At no point while he was in public had Erik allowed any sign of that wound to show in his movements.

Erik seemed content to allow Charles to remain in his chair, but the geneticist wheeled himself over, set his brakes, flipped up the footrests, and—bracing himself against the arms of the chair—pushed himself halfway to his feet, rising to an uneasy crouch before twisting and collapsing onto the cushions near Erik.

Erik had lifted his arm up from the couch when it became clear what Charles was doing, and he kept it raised for a moment to be sure Charles wouldn't shift away. Then, settling his arm back behind Charles' shoulders, Erik tilted an eyebrow at the telepath. "I had no idea you were progressing so quickly."

Charles didn't like to see the cautious pleasure that had spread over Erik's face as soon as he'd drawn near. "I would have thought you'd be harassing Badger for news each day."

Erik wore an enigmatic smirk as he leaned down slightly to peer into Charles' eyes. "I was half-worried you would make a bad pun on her name."

"And the other half?" Charles inquired absently, trying to glimpse the title of the book between Erik's fingers.

"Likes watching train wrecks," the other man concluded. He moved his hand so that Charles could make out the letters spelling _the Great Gatsby_. This one Charles had read before, but he nodded his approval with a small, considering _hm_.

"Before I begin, Charles, I wanted to ask: which languages do you speak?" Erik balanced the corner of the book on his thigh, rotating it slowly back and forth in short arcs.

"English," the geneticist replied, watching the way light ran down the pages as the slim novel turned toward and away from the lamp.

Erik lifted the corner of his mouth. "Don't play this game, Charles."

Glancing up, Charles conceded, wryly, "Okay. Latin, as well."

The book came to rest beneath the telepath's chin, lifting his face to Erik's view. "_Charles_," he warned. "I know for a fact that you speak some amount of Spanish, and I once saw you reading _Die Verwandlung_."

Charles smile was a strained mixture of embarrassment and irritation. "I don't… I'm a _telepath_, Erik. I speak any particular language only as well as the person I'm speaking to."

Erik withdrew the book, flipped it in his hand, and hooked the spine in behind the curve of Charles' jaw, pulling the telepath very slightly closer. "You can't commune telepathically with a book, old friend," he commented, raising the novel to touch—very carefully—against Charles' temple.

Charles communicated his growing exasperation with a _look_ and a hand on Erik's wrist, preventing the other man from abusing the book any further. "Well, I happened to be around someone who _could_ speak German at the time, _Erik_. I don't understand why this is so important to you, but I'm being entirely honest. If it weren't for the fact that I already knew it by the time my telepathy manifested, I suspect I wouldn't even know English."

"And the Latin?" Erik persisted, letting the book drop back to his lap.

The geneticist granted him another flat stare. "Boarding school," he replied shortly.

"Hm," Erik mused. He looked down at _the Great Gatsby_. "To answer your question, I was trying to decide what to read tomorrow."

Charles' eyebrows jumped. "We're not going to finish reading this _tonight_," he protested, somewhat doubtfully.

"Not tonight," Erik agreed, "but I know you'll have finished it by tomorrow evening."

This, Charles couldn't deny. Still, he grimaced. "Starting a new story every night—it's a little bit Scheherazade, isn't it?"

"Not really," Erik said. Leaning toward Charles' ear, close enough that his breath teased the telepath's neck, he murmured, "For one thing, Charles, you're no virgin."

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	10. Chapter 10

Warning: I am a tease. I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to be, it's just how I am. :c I will deliver eventually though! *pinkyswear*

Anyways, heeeeere's chapter ten! Beta'd by LJ user idioticonion (and it needed it!).

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**xxvii.**

The next morning Raven brought Beast with her to visit Charles. It was the first time he had seen the furred scientist in quite some time, and they only met now because Charles had asked Raven to pull the man away from the labs as a special favor.

When they came in through the door, he felt an immediate pang of guilt; Raven hadn't wanted to bother Beast while he was so busy with relief work, but Charles had insisted, arguing: "Beast is a scientist; he's never _not_ working. Besides, he probably won't eat if you don't pull him away." Raven had pursed her lips, tilted her head, and considered; then, finally, she had agreed. Charles' powers had nothing to do with her decision, but he was disturbed to realize that... That they might have been, had she refused.

Still, Beast was here now, looking vaguely irritated and harassed despite his warm greeting. "Professor! It's been a long time. What have you been doing?"

"Nothing nearly as interesting as yourself, I'm sure," Charles replied. "Raven hasn't been able to give me updates on your work since you vanished into it."

Beast shrugged. "If only there was something to update you with. We have a prototype of a portable solar-powered engine, for field pumps and that sort of thing. Well, we had one. It's been conscripted and now all the engineers are stuck scrambling to make too few engines for too many relief workers." Beast's fingers pushed up beneath his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. "No, that's a good thing. We're helping. We shouldn't complain about having to recreate five hundred intricate glass panels. I just wish they'd stop getting angry at us for not building them fast enough."

"I've offered to help you," Raven chided, hitting the back of her hand against Beast's arm. He snarled a little, reflexively, but there was no real anger behind it.

"You and half the technicians from the other labs," the scientist grumbled. "If we let you all in we'd have nowhere to put our elbows."

"I could change to a form that doesn't have elbows," Raven offered brightly, surprising Beast into a fanged smile.

"Can you do that?" Charles asked, keeping his tone carefully bland. He'd have to wait until after they had finished eating to do what he planned; prematurely cold food would betray his activities. "I've never seen you change your appearance so dramatically."

"We used to pretend I was human," Raven reminded him gently; Charles was suddenly very aware that he was the only non-blue person in the room at the moment. "I've practiced since then. See?" She looked down at her left arm as it shivered and writhed until her wrist replaced her elbow; then she raised her arm and wriggled her fingers at the telepath, who was torn between the strangeness of the sight and his curiosity.

"Where does the extra mass go?" Charles inquired, deciding to pursue the latter route.

"Oh, it gets moved around, a little bit here and there," Raven replied, gesturing across her extremely visible body with her shortened arm. Charles could not see any difference in her proportions.

"She weighs the same no matter what form she takes," Beast explained, looking oddly domestic with a spoonful of creamed wheat poised near his black, whiskery lips. "We're not allowed to do much mutant testing, but since the scale was right there…" He shrugged.

"Are you saying that you're not allowed to test mutant abilities?" Charles asked, puzzled. "I would think it'd be important to know the capabilities of our people in order to better govern them."

"Magneto doesn't want to risk that information falling into the wrong hands," Raven explained, crossing her legs. She paused to re-grow her forearm and then laced her fingers over her knee. "He believes that testing powers would invite prejudice against certain kinds of mutations."

"What she means is, Magneto's still over-protective of mutantkind despite the fact that it's now abundantly clear that we're no better than normal humans, and if the so-called '_Homo superior_' find out exactly how powerful some of us are, they'll be just as panicked as if they themselves weren't telekinetic or blue or capable of flight." Beast tossed his spoon down into the dregs of farina at the bottom of his bowl. "Never mind that mutants are already discriminating against each other, anyway."

"Are they? How so?" Charles prompted with a quirked eyebrow, folding his hands over his stomach and leaning back in the chair.

"Come on, Beast, it's not _that_ bad," Raven protested, pleading with her eyes for a change in the conversation.

"Mystique, there's already an unspoken hierarchy of mutations—you can't deny that people with more obvious or powerful abilities are given more prestigious positions in the Brotherhood. It's only logical that the general population is influenced by who they see in charge."

"Logic is one thing," Raven stated, tilting her head sagely. "Pessimism is another."

"'Pessimism?'" Beast scoffed. "Just the other day I had to sit down with a technician who'd been complaining about a lab assistant's work. Do you know why? Because that assistant's an empath and can't, according this tech, use her empathy to grow better bacteria. It's a good thing I look the way I do now or a third of my own staff wouldn't take me seriously."

"I'm sure it's not that wide-spread," Raven assured him. "_I've_ never noticed any mocking of less powerful mutants."

"_You_ wouldn't have," Beast muttered. "You're _blue_; nobody doubts that you're a mutant. Try walking around looking like a human and see what kind of looks you get. I might not be on the receiving end any more, but I can recognize alienation when it's happening to someone else."

Raven raised her chin proudly and said, "Okay, I _will_ go around looking human, if it'll make you happy. I'm not afraid to do it; I just don't have any shame for my natural appearance anymore."

"Nobody was trying to say that you weren't willing," Charles promised her gently. "While I do believe that Beast is right, I know how easy it is to take for granted the problems you don't have, and it's not a sign of being a bad person. I've done it myself, after all, and I of all people should know better."

Raven pushed her empty bowl to the center of the table and smiled sweetly. "Sometimes you act so much like you're trying to be my dad, I forget that we're almost the same age."

Charles returned her smile. "I know," he said, and added silently—but only to himself—_I'm sorry, Raven_. He squeezed his eyes closed and when Charles opened them again, Beast was blinking dazedly at Raven, who had begun to roll her eyes fondly and now held that position, frozen except for the soft in-and-out of her breath.

"I remember," Beast declared, his voice sluggish and the tufts of his eyebrows low in concentration. He blinked a few more times, vigorously, and slowly his expression cleared. "I _remember_. When you came to visit me in the labs, we talked about overthrowing Magneto. Wait, did you just freeze Mystique?"

Charles pressed the knuckle of his index finger to his lips and glanced at his adopted sister sheepishly. "Yes, it appears I have. I… Didn't want to, but we haven't been able to talk privately and, well, I think the longer we wait the less impact deposing Er… Magneto will have."

After directing one final uneasy stare at Raven, Beast shifted his attention back to the telepath. "I have to agree with you. Before the tsunamis it might not have been as urgent, but I can tell you that the resistance is not pleased with Magneto's attempts to move mutant refugees into human towns. He can't just send his people into the last shelter of the oppressed and expect everyone to be happy."

"I didn't see that there was any other option," Charles stated, his forehead pinching.

"At this point in time, no, but Magneto didn't need to force the humans into shanty towns back then, either. They won't have forgotten who sent them away in the first place, even if, by happy accident, it saved their lives." Beast set his foot on the edge of the table, giving Charles the opportunity to muse on how, just half a decade ago, that same man would have been embarrassed just to be seen in the same _room_ with his feet; now his toes gripped and caressed the wood without a shred of concern for Charles' watching eyes.

"Surely their experiences will allow them to see the value of compassion, now that their former neighbors are less fortunate," Charles rationalized.

Beast peered at the geneticist from over the tops of his glasses—not the ones he had worn back when they'd met; thinner, certainly, but in a similar style and still jarringly out of place. "I heard about how you lectured the Brotherhood leaders, Professor, and I think everyone can appreciate that you saved lives that day. Nonetheless, you have to realize that most of the people out there—the ones who have to scrounge for food and treat their illnesses with whatever molding medication or wild plant they can scavenge—they can't see beyond the next month, let alone the next generation, and they won't care about things like genetic drift and whether or not either of our species go extinct. They care about what's in their hands right _now_, and if someone comes to take that away from them—_again_—they're not going to think twice about striking out. If we don't act soon, we're going to have another war on our hands, and this one we might not win because we'll _both_ be too sore to get back up."

"Fair enough," Charles assented. "Perhaps the only way to prevent wiping ourselves out is to make sure that Erik's subdued before he can resort to violence."

"If we _can_ by then," the leonine scientist said, tone flat. "It'll be hard to think of a way to kill him when I have to forget everything before I leave the room."

The telepath blinked and frowned. "I was rather hoping we wouldn't have to kill him."

Beast gave Charles a look of puzzled incredulity. "What are you going to do, keep Magneto locked away in a cell without any metal? Stay by his side twenty-four hours a day and stop him from using his powers? You know he wouldn't tolerate that kind of life, and there are others who would come to free him. You're left with the option of either wiping his mind or killing him; both of those things will destroy everything that he is, but one's both easier and, in my opinion, more humane."

"I suppose," Charles agreed reluctantly, "but I would prefer to at least offer him the choice. I'd like to think that we're above cold-blooded murder."

"Perhaps you would, but that doesn't mean that it isn't necessary, or that it isn't deserved. Remember: even aside from everything he did to us, personally, we _are_ talking about the man who committed the worst genocide in history and allowed the pollution of Earth's atmosphere," Beast said, still watching Charles as if he feared for the telepath's sanity.

"We'll see what our options are before we have to decide," Charles compromised, glancing over at Raven. "We should turn our conversation to a more useful direction; I don't want to keep her like this long."

"Of course; she'll notice the missing time," Beast acknowledged, and Charles considered but eventually decided against correcting his reasoning. "I wish I could have more time to think about this—but no, Ms. Frost _does_ check my mind fairly often now; any scrap of plan won't go unnoticed."

"We'll have to work with what we can do while we're together," Charles stated, setting his hands on his knees, business-like. "Drugs seem like the most obvious approach, but I can't think of a good delivery method, and anyway he'd likely notice the effects long before they incapacitated him."

"At a high enough dose it won't matter, but you're right; it'll be hard to get anything into him. I doubt he ever looks away from you, so good luck sneaking it into food or drink. Needles are out, of course, and anything airborne would affect you as well—also, the canister would be hard to hide. Sadly we still can't engineer lethal viruses to target hosts that specifically… Anyway, it would look suspicious if I started ordering a lot of materials," Beast mused, and Charles nodded, increasingly mortified by the scenarios Beast conjured.

"We need to see what materials you already have available," the geneticist advised cautiously, "and perhaps I could also survey the minds of your lab workers for ideas."

"You'll have to convince Magneto to let you start working in the labs," Beast mused, his broad nose wrinkling with consideration and concern. "Can you manage that?"

"I can persuade him," Charles assured the leonine scientist, projecting a certainty he didn't entirely feel. Beast raised a questioning eyebrow, but Charles had no desire to explain further.

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**xxxviii.**

Once again, Charles had been the very picture of obedience during the Brotherhood meeting, although those affairs had been growing noticeably more strained as Erik's subjects grew frustrated with the demands on their time and attentions. One mutant had even attempted to lie to Erik, claiming that he was already involved in a heretofore unmentioned, obscure project of great importance and so could not perform the duties now asked of him.

Erik had frowned, sure that even the strain of the last week hadn't been enough to make him forget ordering any such thing, and he had looked to Charles for his opinion. With a slight purse of his lips and a gentle shake of his head, the telepath confirmed Erik's suspicions and the lying mutant's chair had flown out from under him, sending the man tumbling to the floor.

"The fact that you'd lie is disappointing," Erik had said, remaining calmly seated. "The fact that you did so in front of a telepath proves that you're an idiot as well. Get out." Then, as the former Brotherhood member scrambled away, Erik had looked at Charles with—with _appreciation_. The telepath hadn't been quick enough to stifle the answering swell of pride, but he decided it was only a natural response, even if it was entirely _un_natural that Erik would value Charles' word over that of his own followers.

It appeared that Erik had decided to accept Charles' cooperation at face value; Charles was sure that Erik doubted the honesty of his affability, but it did not appear to bother the other mutant. In fact that evening, after the meeting had gone especially late and they were finally alone together, Charles reached to unfasten the chain only for it to twitch away from his grasp.

"Leave it on for a moment," Erik murmured, and Charles froze with his hands hovering over his collar, heart stuttering because he knew what Erik wanted—had wanted from the very moment the gold glittered light across Charles' skin.

The other man stalked slowly, smoothly over, until he stood next to Charles. With an elegant curl of his fingers, Erik took hold of the telepath's chin and tilted back Charles' head, exposing the length of his throat for Erik's eyes to devour. Charles allowed this, settling his elbows down so that the view was unimpeded; he _required_ this, because it would make his job that much easier.

Erik rolled Charles' head to the side—to face him, had Charles been able to look down—and touched the fingers of his other hand to the necklace over the geneticist's top shirt button. Charles couldn't really see Erik leaning over him, was unable to see Erik's expression as he was almost _drawn_ to Charles, but he could feel Erik's breath against his Adam's apple: the heat suggested proximity, but the gentleness implied that it had come through Erik's parted lips; wanting, but unable to touch.

So Charles freed Erik of that responsibility; he reached one arm over the other man's shoulders, brushed the helmet—tantalizingly close—and pulled Erik _down_; down until Erik's lips pressed against his throat, muffling a soft noise of appreciative surprise; down further, until Erik's lips parted and his teeth scraped around either side of Charles' trachea. _Then_ the telepath stopped pulling; waited, with his fingertips brushing the short hairs on the back of Erik's neck, to see whether the man would accept the unspoken invitation.

For a long moment Erik did nothing, his tongue questing hesitantly over Charles' skin in the private darkness of his mouth; then, finally, he bit—ever so gently, less of a change in pressure than a difference of intent, but with a deep feral sound far more frightening than anything ever threatened by a wild animal. For a few seconds, Charles wondered not-so-idly whether it would actually be possible for Erik to tear his throat out with his teeth, until the mutant withdrew—and closed in again, to nip along Charles' neck until Erik paused just before subjecting the geneticist's lips to that same treatment.

"What do you want, Charles?" Erik inquired, the ghost of a chuckle mingling with Charles' shallow breathing.

"You know I never studied to be a politician," Charles confided, glancing down Erik's face in what he hoped was a seductive manner.

Now Erik _did_ huff a laugh. "You want me to let you go back to the labs." He shifted his grip over the geneticist's chin, the pads of his fingertips warm and lingering.

"I want you to let me _work_ in the labs," Charles clarified, utterly still. He thought that the shiver that passed down his spine must have been from the wetness evaporating from his throat; it made a long line of _cold_.

Erik's eyes were creased with amusement where Charles wanted to see lust. "And what are you offering in return?" he asked, a dark smile curling through his words.

Charles hesitated, finding a tightness in his throat that had nothing to do with Erik's teeth. Finally, his voice made harsh with quiet, he offered, "Anything."

The other man was grinning, but Charles suspected it was not because he was being taken seriously. "You bargain yourself away too easily, Charles," Erik chided fondly.

"It's all I want," the telepath explained with a bleakness he didn't need to feign. It was not for nothing that he had spent all those years of his life studying.

"Is that so?" Erik asked doubtfully, stroking his thumb along Charles' jaw, moving his hand up the side of Charles' face to brush against his sideburn. "You don't want to have control of your own projects? Or to be able to teach? What about going outside? Those things aren't outside the realm of possibility, I imagine."

Charles fell silent, considering. Then, grudgingly, he said, "Since you seem to know a lot more about this procedure than I do, why don't _you_ make a request, and _I'll_ decide whether it's acceptable."

"You've already shown your hand, but all right." Erik shifted, pulling his face a little away from Charles as he spoke. His free hand moved from the chain to the V of Charles' shirt, pressing the hard plastic button into the notch between the telepath's clavicles; from there, they slid off and, unseen, settled on the next button down. "_Hmm_. I don't want to be too greedy…"

Erik's touch slipped another button lower, to the center of Charles' sternum. "How about this…" As Erik spoke, his fingers marched slowly, inexorably down the line of Charles' shirt, and the geneticist wondered wildly whether Erik really could manipulate the iron in blood because all of his seemed to be following Erik's hand, lower and lower and Charles couldn't breathe.

"I'll let you work in the lab if, tomorrow night…" Erik was muttering, watching the creases spread over Charles' forehead as his fingers found the divot of the telepath's navel, "…you let me touch you _anywhere_ I want—" he leaned close, his fingers fastening over Charles' belt buckle— "above the belt."

Charles laughed, sharp and a little bit hysterical. "You do that anyway," he pointed out, meeting Erik's gaze because if he glanced down at the hand on his buckle he might just keep right on cackling like a person gone mad.

_Not like this_, Erik's eyes seemed to say, but instead he replied, "Then you lose nothing."

Throwing his head back as if to put physical distance between his mind and reality, Charles pulled at his lower lip with his teeth, studying the ceiling with fierce determination. "When would I start work?"

"Soon," Erik responded. His thumb made lazy patterns over Charles' shirt, just above the line of his trousers. Charles couldn't tell whether it was intentional.

"_How_ soon?" Charles insisted.

Erik leaned close, edging in next to Charles' face and very nearly stealing the air from his lungs. "If you keep the chain on tomorrow… By the end of the week."

Charles furrowed his brows in consideration, glancing down, finally, at Erik's hand, which no longer seemed nearly as funny. "Um," he began, eloquently. That _was_ fairly soon; between two and four days, at most.

"You should take the deal," Erik urged softly; hypnotically. "It's better than what you offered." Charles remained silent, and Erik tilted his head. "Well, Charles? What do you think?"

The telepath inhaled deeply and wrapped his fingers around Erik's wrist, pulling the other man's hand off of his belt. "I think you're early for your reservation," he declared, forcing as much confidence as he could into the statement.

Erik's smile was slow and predatory, like the kiss he pressed to Charles' lips; his fingers and thumb dug into the sides of the geneticist's jaw as if he needed to in order to coax Charles' mouth open. Attempting to keep the future out of his thoughts, Charles wondered when the slide of Erik's tongue against his had started seeming like the safer option; then Charles wondered why, if he had paid less than he offered, he still felt as if Erik had gotten the better of him.

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	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11! By the way, have I mentioned that I've never written anything remotely sexual before this story? No? Well, let me say now, I haven't! Still, I tried to go for something a bit unique here, and thank FSM for my beta idioticonion for encouraging me to go ahead with it! Anyway, the story Charles tells in this is true, and is based on my own experiences on field study in Yellowstone.

Finally, happy birthday, Elelith! I hope this is an adequate present. :)

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**xxxix.**

"I say we should just bomb them," Zeus declared, thumping his fist on the thick oak table. "_Boom_, problem solved."

Skink licked his lips in a flicker of movement. "We can't just use nuclear weapons against villages, unprovoked," he cautioned. "Perhaps you forgot, but we _need_ those villages for our own people."

Zeus scoffed and rolled back into his chair. "How is this unprovoked? If the resistance is going to raid our supply lines when we're _already_ sending their little darlings aid, then damn straight it's provoked. Besides, I didn't say we should use _big_ bombs; just, y'know, _little_ ones, to get a little bit of that radiation going. I hear Splinter has a couple ferreted away somewhere."

Splinter's arms remained crossed, and the tall head of state security didn't respond except to fix his inscrutable regard on the other mutant. Charles, due to his gift, was one of a small number of people who knew for certain whether or not the man _could_ speak; indeed he did, but only to a select handful of people, Erik among them. He evidently did not consider replying to Zeus a worthwhile conversation.

Splinter's mutation seemed insignificant at first glance; his sole ability was that he could throw miniscule particles of matter at relativistic speeds. Nonetheless, this made Charles glad that he was one of those few truly loyal Brotherhood members; the telepath guessed that not even Erik's power could stop something moving at a significant fraction of the speed of light, and with enough kinetic energy even a poppy seed could kill.

Charles did not care to dwell on the mutant—his mind was slick and dark like a midnight murder, and anyway Emma Frost was in there too—so instead he watched Erik's show, studying the Brotherhood leader's profile as the man listened intently. There was fatigue tucked away into the corners of Erik's face, around his mouth and nose and in the skin beneath his eyes, and Charles would have bet that there were white hairs beneath that lurid helmet.

He tried not to think about his promise to Erik, about those hands ungloved and against his skin and—surprisingly—he had some measure of success. The man who sat next to Charles now, on those occasions when he _did_ glance over, seemed as if he might have never touched Charles; had never kissed him, or read him anything that wasn't written in the form of a report. It was strange to see someone so different in Erik's chair, and Charles wasn't sure how to react to that person.

"You're absolutely mad," Skink was at that moment accusing Zeus. "Your first solution to _everything_ is the nuclear option. Whatever happened to diplomacy and moderation?"

Zeus drew breath to respond but it was Infrared who spoke. "Boys, boys; now, neither of you are well enough endowed for any of us to get a kick out of watching you wave it around, so why don't you can it and give someone else a chance to talk?"

While Zeus furrowed his shaggy eyebrows, lips moving silently as he repeated Infrared's words slowly back to himself, Skink adjusted his spectacles and laced his fingers together on the table. "Well, then, Ms. Infrared, if you would care to share your opinion? I'm sure it is eminently reasonable."

Infrared swung her gaze pointedly to Emma, who perched delicately in the chair next to her. They were a sharp contrast to each other: Emma pale and delicate as spun crystal, Infrared dark and sharp and _there_ like pitchblende. It seemed only logical that they would pair together, polar opposites bound together by their shared disdain for the world.

Emma tilted her head in a mocking imitation of shyness, and smiled sweetly. "_I_ think that if we're having problems with the resistance, we should ask our local expert."

Charles waited for that person to speak up until he realized that Emma was staring at _him_, as was everyone else. Caught off guard, he fumbled; "I haven't a clue," he said. "The last time I had any contact with the resistance was four years ago."

Zeus laughed, short and derisive. "Well then what's the point of you being here? I thought Magneto was keeping you around because you know stuff, not so you could be his pet telepath."

Looking around at Erik to for help, or to perhaps speak up in his defense, Charles instead found that the Brotherhood leader was watching him with wordless appraisal, expression carefully guarded except for just the slightest tinge of humor: waiting to see whether the telepath would sink or swim. Erik was, after all, the same man who had pushed a teenager off a satellite dish in order to teach him to fly.

"Actions _do_ speak louder than words," Charles mused slowly, pulling his attention away from Erik. Perhaps if he spoke for long enough, something would occur to him. Maybe he could even get away with being vague. "So far you've only _said_ that humans will be re-integrated into society. You need to actually pass laws showing that they will. The anti-extinctionists are reasonable; many of them will back off if they think you're listening."

"What do you propose?" Erik asked, voice soft but carrying; it was the same tone he used to question his followers.

Meeting Erik's gaze, Charles felt his throat tighten, because Erik wasn't looking at him like he was a friend, or a stranger, or even an enemy. Instead, it was a patently _Magneto_ look, one that suggested he and Charles were… Alike. Comrades, even. _Brothers_. The telepath could see why young mutants fell so easily for Magneto's ideals.

Charles cleared his throat, wishing that his power also allowed him to think _faster_. "Perhaps you could found a city where humans and mutants can live together, as equals. Call it a new city for a new world. In the mountains, maybe; it could be symbolic of—" Charles kept his face carefully straight— "rising above hardship."

There was a long period of silence that Charles hoped could be described as contemplative, while at the same time he dreaded being taken seriously; then Skink cleared his throat. "That would be prohibitively expensive," he declared, and Charles tried not to be disappointed that it hadn't been Erik who replied. The telepath sank back into grateful silence and let the Brotherhood members debate the feasibility and worthiness of his idea. He wanted to care, to take a more proactive role, but Charles was too tired, too confused; he wished that the evening would come faster so that he could get it over with sooner.

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**xl.**

Badger raised her eyebrows at the necklace but otherwise did not remark on it; Charles suspected that she had simply filed it away into the same category she placed all of the other things about Charles that bewildered and dismayed her soldierly sensibilities.

She stopped Charles before he could get onto the table where he usually went through his exercises. "Not today," she explained with an evil sort of relish. "Today you get a special treat." Badger gestured toward something that had always made Charles wonder, just a little bit, whether someone came in at night to practice gymnastics, although of course he knew its real purpose. It was a pair of parallel steel rails, just wide enough and tall enough for a person to stagger along between.

Charles brushed his hair out of his eyes even though it had not, in fact, been hanging down into them. "Isn't it a bit… _Soon_?" He flexed his legs in the chair and they informed him that they definitely didn't feel up to the task.

Badger chewed on one of her nails. "Don't play coy with me, buck; I know you've been using your free time to practice standing. Hell, you're like an open book, you know that? Don't ever play poker."

Wincing, Charles refrained from denying his illicit activities and protested, "But aren't there supposed to be steps _in between_ standing and walking?"

"The only step that I see is the one where you stop being a pansy and do it," Badger observed. "So either you get up on those bars, or you wheel on back to your rooms and shut up about not being able to walk, because it'll be your own damn fault."

Charles knew better than to correct Badger on anything regarding politeness, but he was not above casting his eyes skyward as he wheeled past, positioning himself between the rails. They looked like they would be about hip-high to him if he stood; Charles felt some amount of trepidation because he wasn't sure that he wouldn't fall if he tried to pull himself up. Still, he reached for them and was surprised when Badger helped to propel him to his feet with a strength shocking for someone of her height.

"You're not quite _that_ ready," she grunted, as if to deny that she had any desire to help. Nonetheless, Charles had to hide a small smile as Badger's firm grip held him steady on the bars.

Staring down at his feet, Charles felt a sudden wash of vertigo; this wasn't really standing, just as what he was about to do wasn't really walking, but he'd thought… He'd thought there would have been more fanfare. Someone close to him watching, maybe, or some dramatic incident that propelled him to his feet. This seemed very… Anticlimactic.

Well. There was always the moment when he walked on his own. Charles could try to do something special _that_ time; this, perhaps, was merely practice for the future.

Leaning his weight onto one tight-knuckled hand and then the other, Charles shuffled forward a little bit; his feet seemed intent to trip over each other and he had to _think_ about each step, but they _were_ steps, and his legs were still pathetically sticklike but _holding_.

"Yeah, you think it's easy now," Badger cautioned, keeping slow pace with Charles. "Just wait until your arms crap out; then you'll _actually_ start using your legs."

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**l.**

When Erik stepped into the room, Charles barely greeted him before moving directly over to the couch; he didn't really want to talk about this, or fumble around awkwardly with pleasantries when they both knew what Erik was there for, and the sooner Erik finished with Charles—so he told himself—the sooner he could start pretending that it would be a one-time occurrence.

In his hurry, however, Charles left the chair just a little farther from the couch than he usually did when he shifted himself over. When he went to stand, Charles' recently abused muscles quivered and _gave_ and there was no way he was going to reach the cushions or get back into the chair, and as he overbalanced and began to fall the telepath's first thought was _oh, how embarrassing_, followed shortly by _this might hurt_.

Charles' arm wrenched in its socket, his fall halted; Erik's fingers drove into his bicep where he had caught the geneticist, and he used that grip to haul Charles back up and then lower him carefully onto the couch. Charles hadn't even known the man was standing so close.

"Are you alright?" Erik asked, still holding Charles' arm, but more gently now. The concern on his face was mild, but still more than seemed reasonable considering that Charles had never hit the ground.

"Fine," muttered the telepath, as he straightened the fabric of his pants around the knees. "I just didn't realize how tired I am. I walked today, you know."

Erik's eyebrows sloped gracefully as he sank to the edge of the cushions, sitting almost sideways and with a discreet space between them. "By yourself?"

"Of course; tomorrow I was thinking maybe I'd go for a nice jog," Charles replied. Then he pushed his fingers through his hair and exhaled. "I'm sorry. That was unwarranted."

Chuckling low in his throat, Erik replaced Charles' fingers with his own, cradling the telepath's head. "You're too good for this world, Charles," Erik told him, ignoring the long-suffering stare that earned him.

"That never used to be the case," Charles remarked, the unspoken _before you_ sharper than anything he said aloud.

Erik growled low in his throat and shoved Charles back into the cushions, pinning the telepath there with a hand on his chest. The geneticist forced his tensed muscles to relax and closed his eyes, swallowing spasmodically; this was it, then. He could handle this.

Warm breath caressed Charles' cheek. "Open your eyes," Erik commanded, which only made Charles want to squeeze them more tightly shut. "Don't run away."

Reluctantly, Charles looked at the other man. "You didn't stipulate that I had to be paying attention, Erik." The hand spread over his chest was heavy and immobile, but moved with the in-and-out of his lungs—also, to a lesser degree, with the steady shock of his heart.

Erik's gaze dipped down to Charles' neck—he was still wearing the chain—then back up to his eyes. "Just… Talk about something."

Charles moistened his lips. His mind, when he cast back into it, was perfectly blank. "Like what?"

"Whatever you want," Erik replied, his hand pushing up to frame Charles' throat in the space between his thumb and fingers. The necklace draped out over his wrist. "Your day, science, anything else you think of… I want you _here_, with me."

"Okay," Charles agreed shakily, glancing away to the opposite wall. His attention caught on a painting, old and browned but with snow-capped mountains clearly visible over a clear lake. "There's—there's a phenomenon called watermelon snow, that occurs in alpine regions where it's cold all year round…"

"Mm," Erik acknowledged, idly unfastening Charles' jacket.

"…But it's in the summer, when the snow's melting back, when it, when the reason for the name becomes clear, because it turns _pink_ or even, even red, sometimes, and smells like… Are you sure you want me to talk?" Charles leaned his head back as Erik's deft fingers went to work at his top shirt button. He sought out the other man's eyes, but Erik was intent on his task.

"_Mm_," Erik repeated, more firmly this time as the button popped free. "Yes. I'm listening, Charles."

"All right," Charles conceded, looking back to the painting as Erik went to work on the next button. "So, until recently, no one knew why the snow turned red in the mountains—well, any tundra, really, it's been reported on the shores of Greenland too—and they mostly thought that maybe it was from the soil, or blood, or that it fell from the sky with that color, but nobody ever saw red snow falling and it happens over the ice too so it couldn't be the soil, and the idea that it's blood was just—"

Pausing his efforts toward undoing Charles' dress shirt to pluck at the material of the white tee-shirt beneath, a teasing grin parted Erik's lips. "So many _layers_, Charles."

Charles granted him a swift glare. "It's _cold_, Erik, and anyway I wasn't going to go out underdressed today just because you might have to take it off later."

Erik's grin softened into a fond smile, and he patted the triangle of exposed undershirt. "Tell me what makes the snow red."

Allowing himself a sigh of irritation, Charles dropped his head back again as Erik returned to his buttons. "Well, one report in the nineteenth century attributed it to meteoric iron, but more recently we discovered that it's actually caused by a species of green algae—green in that they're in the phyletic group of green algae, not that they themselves are green. They have a secondary red pigment in their chloroplasts."

Erik had nearly reached down to the line of Charles' trousers, and he had to stop for a moment to tug the shirt out of the telepath's pants. Charles didn't feel obliged to help, but he curved his back a little to free up the fabric there.

"There's an entire ecosystem at the tops of these mountains, right along the surface of the snow," Charles continued, determined to finish his train of thought regardless of whether the other man was listening—and of course Erik probably _was_ paying attention, even though he didn't _look_ like he was thinking about anything else than the last several inches of Charles' shirt and what lay beneath it. "There are flies that feed on the algae, and spiders that eat the flies, and we didn't know about any of that until this century even though Aristotle wrote about red snow more than a thousand years ago."

"Fascinating," Erik remarked, dropping the edges of Charles' dress shirt to either side of the geneticist's chest. Contemplatively, he spread his hands over the soft cotton covering Charles' belly, his fingers wrapping around to Charles' waist. "Is there a moral to that story?"

"No," Charles replied quietly, breathing shallowly as if to avoid disturbing Erik's hands. "It's just a story. Not even a story, really; more of a bit of history. Sorry."

"Don't be; I enjoyed it." Erik slid his hands down, caught the bottom of the tee-shirt, and his palms pressed flat against Charles' bare sides as his splayed fingers lead the exploration of Charles' skin. The fabric of the undershirt gathered around Erik's wrists, and Charles immediately broke into gooseflesh where his stomach was left exposed—he hadn't exaggerated; it _was_ bloody cold in the room. Then again, he was used to the fireplace in British Columbia.

Charles couldn't bring himself to complain, however; he couldn't speak at all, actually, despite Erik's prohibition of silence. All he could do was watch as Erik devoured the sight of his bare skin, as if even just that little patch above his navel was for some reason worth memorizing. Charles was struck by a sudden, absurd embarrassment: because, well, he'd _tried_ to stay in shape as best he could, but there had only been so much he could do, and why did he care so much about whether Erik liked what he saw anyway?

Erik twisted his wrists to snare the hem of the shirt with his index fingers, pinning it higher up Charles' chest, and ran his thumbs lightly along the line of the telepath's ribs. The other man's hands seemed dark in comparison to Charles, and were coarse with calluses that rasped against his own, much smoother skin. Charles shivered, but at least he could legitimately blame it on the ambient temperature.

Erik's words were rough with reverence as he murmured, "You have the kind of skin that deserves milk and honey."

Charles was immediately indignant; also, a little bit worried. "Please don't do that," he implored. "My skin does perfectly fine when it's not smeared with food."

For a moment, Erik appeared utterly bewildered; then he barked a laugh, shaking his head. "I wasn't going to smear—god, what a dirty mind you have. Besides…" the pitch of his voice dropped again, and Erik ducked down to kiss Charles' belly, then sampled the geneticist's skin with a daub of his tongue. "…You taste fine as you are." Erik's eyes, rising again to meet Charles', creased with amusement. "Although, perhaps honey isn't a bad idea…"

"No," Charles replied, his hands curled into fists at his sides, "that is never going to happen, and if you suggest it, I will throw myself down the stairs."

"Very dramatic," Erik commented dryly, straightening up again. He gathered together both of Charles' shirts and the jacket, businesslike. "But I'll keep that threat in mind in case I'm ever tempted. Arms up."

Charles lifted his arms with a final look of unimpressed disdain—just to show that he was _definitely_ above all this—and Erik pulled his shirts and jacket up over his head all at once. For a stifling, claustrophobic moment, Charles was sure that he was tangled up, _trapped_ in the lightless confines of his own clothing—then he was freed. But of course, he wasn't free; he was still ensnared by simple virtue of _being_ there, nude from the waist up except for the gold chain, icy against his neck because it had come from the outside of his shirt.

Charles tried not to shudder, knowing that he looked pathetic enough without also wrapping his arms around his chest and hunching over for warmth—for once, he wished he had chest hair; if it didn't keep the heat in then it would at least make him seem less boyish, and really that was ridiculous because he was nearly thirty and he had his doctorate.

He stared out at Erik from his tenuous shell of body heat, and there must have been a plea in his eyes because a tiny smile curved Erik's lips and he unfastened his cape, shaking it out over Charles' shoulders and brushing Charles' disheveled fringe back off his forehead. The telepath resisted the urge to pull the cape closed and hide inside; it smelled of Erik—steel and cologne and old wood—was still _warm_ from Erik, and the scarlet lining was surprisingly soft against Charles' skin.

Erik reached an arm under the cape, against the curve of Charles' back, and pulled the geneticist in against himself. In that same movement, he leaned down to capture Charles' mouth with his own, almost violently at first as Charles more-or-less toppled into him. They weren't flush, exactly, because they weren't entirely facing each other, but the red jacket was itchy against Charles' bare chest and punctuated by the scratch of buttons. Charles thought, as he obligingly swept his tongue over Erik's lower lip, that he probably would never look at buttons the same way again, after this; they might even be leaving marks, as far as he knew.

Erik's other hand came to rest on his waist, while at his back Erik skimmed his fingertips down until—Charles gasped against Erik's mouth, arching into him; nobody but himself had touched his scar since he'd regained sensation in his lower body—even then, Charles avoided it—and he discovered now that it had become shockingly sensitive; not quite _pain_, but _too much_ and Charles had to move, somehow, anywhere, so he clutched his hands in the stiff material of Erik's jacket and pulled as if he could climb up it.

Mercifully, Erik moved on from the spot with a soft noise of amusement, breaking the kiss and tucking his nose into the geneticist's hair as Charles hid his face somewhere in the vicinity of Erik's left clavicle. Now that Erik couldn't see and admonish him for it, he let his eyes fall closed as the other mutant's hands moved up to his shoulders—with a quick detour to readjust the cape—and began to trace the lines of Charles' back; slowly, methodically, categorically. He could almost find it relaxing, with his eyes closed, and Charles recited the names of muscles as Erik found them.

_Trapezius,_ he identified as Erik mapped a symmetrical diamond between his scapulae. _Infraspinatus… Deltoid._ Charles suspected that Erik thought those words as well; the telepath felt certain that his teres major was not well enough defined to follow by intuition alone, but Erik's fingers brushed over it nonetheless and then swept down the long diagonal of the latissimus dorsi, a muscle broad enough to accommodate the length of Erik's hands as his fingers met in the curve of Charles' lumbar spine and dipped—just a little bit—beneath his trousers.

"Above the belt," Charles mumbled into Erik's jacket, and the vibration of a chuckle did strange things to his stomach.

"Well, I'm not below it, at least," Erik said to Charles' temple, but he withdrew his fingers and grazed them instead over the notch of Charles' waist, light and terribly ticklish and the telepath had to cringe away. It wasn't until Erik touched him there again, however, more deliberately this time, that Charles had to tighten his grip on Erik's jacket until it hurt, and even then the pain wasn't enough to distract from the sudden surge of his heart and the not-quite-uncomfortable tension jolting down his abdomen.

Erik's cape was a bit drafty but this time he definitely couldn't blame it on the chill, because when Erik thoughtfully scraped his nails over the spot once more Charles couldn't quite keep himself from squirming a little and he pressed his mouth into the hollow of Erik's shoulder _just in case_, and he really didn't want to think about what circumstance might follow those words.

_It's only natural,_ Charles told himself, discovering that now he was breathing in Erik, could smell nothing else _but_ Erik, and that this did nothing to solve any of his problems. _You're half-naked against another man's chest, a man who's, who's notentirelyunattractive and who's touching you and you haven't been touched since—since—and it would really be more surprising if you _didn't_ feel some sort of—of reaction—_

Then Erik pushed him back into the couch, his fingers tight making bands around the telepath's arms, and this time when Erik kissed him it was like drowning and there was no one out there waiting to jump in and save him. Erik was leaning up on one knee for a better angle as his hands corralled Charles' body; Erik's fingers glanced along his ribs and clavicles, tugging at the gold chain around his neck and tracing around Charles' navel, rough knuckles brushing over the low silhouette of Charles' nipple, and then there was Erik's _scent_, rich and smooth and male—god, he'd been a _fool_, hadn't he, thinking he could go through this unaffected, that he could be touched and not _feel_.

Erik's hand was tangled in his hair, pulling Charles' head back. "Erik, may I—" Charles began, but his breath hitched as the other man's mouth and tongue met his—(_ sternocleidomastoid_, some part of his mind was still babbling)—neck. "Erik may I ask you something?"

"No," Erik rumbled, working his way up to the spot just below Charles' ear and—_how did he know about that_?—Charles gasped for air and felt like maybe he was going to melt down into the cushions.

"_Erik_," Charles beseeched—didn't squeak, definitely didn't squeak—and it was to Erik's credit that he immediately pulled away, frowning.

"Is something wrong?" Erik inquired, which was really the most obvious question he could have chosen and Charles hoped his expression conveyed that opinion. It must have, because Erik leaned back against the cushions, wrapped an arm around Charles, and used his nose to push aside the cape on the closer of Charles' shoulders and press his lips to the spur of bone there.

"You're safe here," Erik murmured, and it sounded like he was trying to cast a spell with those words, to make it true through repetition, sealed with another kiss to Charles' shoulder. "You're safe with me."

There was something in Erik's voice that sounded a lot like fear, and that terrified Charles more than anything else. "I don't get it, Erik," he sighed. "I don't know what you want from me, why you don't just hold me down and—" the word stumbled on his lips, harsh and bitter— "and _fuck_ me, if that's what you want, and _ow_, Erik, that's really not very seductive at all you know."

Erik removed his teeth from Charles' shoulder, pausing to check the divots with the tip of his tongue. "It wasn't supposed to feel good. Stop talking."

Charles met his eyes, searching them for some deeper clue before continuing, "You could do it, you know. I couldn't stop you. I _wouldn't_ stop you; I've even offered, but you don't seem to want that. Why?"

"I don't go to bed on the first date," Erik rumbled stubbornly.

"I've been in your head. You don't go on second dates," Charles stated. "Furthermore, I don't think I can call what you do 'dating.'"

"Good point," the other man agreed, and tried to pull Charles to rest against him. The telepath halted him with a hand.

"That doesn't answer my question," Charles told him. "What are you trying to do? Why all the bargaining?"

Erik glanced down at Charles' bare chest, a small enigmatic smirk on his lips, and tugged the cape back over the telepath. He left his hand beneath, splayed over Charles' stomach. "Maybe I'm not after your body, Charles," he said, and this time Charles did remain silent and Erik seemed content to sit quietly with him. Eventually, Charles could relax again, superficially at least, and he could almost ignore Erik's hands where they still lay on him.

Erik's words were perhaps meant to be reassuring, but Charles found them more worrying that anything else the man could have said. He had very few possessions left, besides his body, and all were things he valued far more than the flesh and bone he inhabited.

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	12. Chapter 12

Hello thar! So this took a bit longer and is not as wordy as last time and also there's no porn, but some RL stuff came up (mostly my partner wanting to actually see me again sometime) and anyway this is definitely still being worked on and I hope this part is interesting! It's sort of a breather from the intensity of the last few chapters, and gives me a chance to flesh out the world and characters a little more.

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**li.**

Charles was shocked when Raven come through his door looking as if she had just moments ago stepped from his memories, pale and blonde and beautiful. Although he had never considered her natural blue shape unattractive, he had also never really looked at her as being a potentially sexual creature whilst she was covered in scales; in fact, for both their sakes he had tried as hard as possible to _not_ regard her in any manner approaching sexual, especially after Raven had entered her teenaged years shortly after himself and come to the inevitable realization that they were, in fact, _not_ brother and sister.

Since then the scales had always seemed like an extra barrier, but it surprised Charles to discover that as he had spent more and more time around Raven as she really was, the blue had become secondary to the woman beneath, and it was unsettling to see her now wearing the smooth skin and loose curls Raven had adopted all those years ago.

Raven, in turn, paused mid-step upon seeing Charles. "You're sitting," she observed. "I mean, not in your chair."

Charles set his book—Raven's book, actually, on loan—down on the arm of the couch and showed her a softly triumphant smile. "So I am," he stated. "Would you care to sit next to me?"

Cautious glee crept and then sprang onto Raven's face, and she all but jumped into the spot next to him, hesitating for a fraction of a second before leaning their shoulders together. "I missed this," she confided, after a moment of revelatory silence.

A grin pulled at Charles' lips and he surrendered to it, ducking his head. "It's just like old times, isn't it? I could grab something boring to read for you."

"No, I just woke up a few hours ago; I'd rather stay awake." Raven peered at him curiously. "I don't usually see you from this angle—did you know you need a haircut?"

Charles tried in vain to smooth down the tangle of hair that had, in the past few weeks, begun to pile up at the nape of his neck. "Yes, I've heard as much, thank you. I don't know who to ask here; I'm half-worried whoever I go to will shear it all off."

Raven laughed in disbelief. "Why would anyone do that? You have beautiful hair!"

"Well, I was rather hoping it was dashing, or handsome, but thank you," Charles replied. "It's just that, oh, this is technically a military base, after all, and they do seem to favor their buzz-cuts around here."

Raven hugged his arm tightly and said, "Oh, don't worry, Charles, I'll protect your hair! I know of at least half a dozen girls who'd love to fondle it." Then she laughed at Charles' flatly unamused glare. "Honestly, you and your hair—I can promise you at least one of them has actually been paid money to wield scissors before."

"Where those scissors specifically used on hair?" Charles asked, doubtfully.

"_Yes_," Raven replied, shoving her brother away from her. "Quit moping; it makes your chin wrinkle up funny."

Charles immediately assumed a more dignified expression. "I would of course appreciate it if you would ask," he conceded.

Only a tiny grain of smugness made it into Raven's smile. "That a—hold on, is that Magneto's cape?"

Grimacing, Charles didn't need to look up in order to answer, but he glanced regardless to where the cape hung from the lowest rung of the coat rack. When Erik had left the previous night, he'd left Charles wrapped in the garment with the promise that he would come back for it that morning. He had yet to arrive.

"Yes," Charles responded, sincerely hoping he wasn't blushing. "He must have forgotten it."

Raven raised her eyebrows. "Magneto _forgot_ something? That's new."

"Mm, quite," Charles mused. "Say, I've been meaning to ask, but you and Beast, you never got… _Together_, did you?"

Raven laughed. "What gave it away?" she teased.

"Well, it's just that you were so interested in each other back at the mansion—_my_ mansion. I thought maybe since you were both here and seem to enjoy each other's company…" Charles trailed off, fishing for an explanation and distraction.

"Oh, you mean, why aren't we going at it like bunnies now?" Charles cringed and Raven snorted in a very unladylike manner. "You really _are_ turning into an old coot, you know that? The last time Beast and I batted eyelashes at each other was five years ago, if you recall."

"I also seem to remember that you were very delicate with each other on the, well, during our altercations," Charles countered with a stiffness that was definitely not coot-like at all.

"Battlefield romances never work out," his adopted sister pointed out pragmatically.

"I was also going to mention that while _you_ might not be batting your eyelashes…" Charles began suggestively.

Raven finished his sentence for him: "…Beast is. Yes, I've noticed, poor guy. Not that I don't appreciate it, just, well, you can't expect that an attractive young woman like me has remained single all these years, can you?"

"Oh," Charles remarked, blinking. "Congratulations, then, to the lucky man."

Perhaps he was still unused to filtering thoughts after being deprived for so long, or perhaps Charles' senses were still touching on Raven's mind after his previous activities there, but either way he was caught off guard by the rush of _wrongdenialno_ that flashed through Raven's head. While her expression didn't change, Charles felt himself blush as he glanced away and he knew that he'd revealed himself.

"Sorry," Charles muttered, "I didn't know."

Raven's lips were in a smile, but her eyes were wide with worry. "What have I told you about looking in my head?"

"I'm still a little rusty," Charles protested. "I don't, it doesn't bother me, you know. Who you date. I'm not _that_ old-fashioned."

"I don't think you can call it an old-fashioned frame of mind just yet," Raven told him, but she had relaxed, just a little bit, readjusting her hands on Charles' arm as if not quite so prepared to flee.

"Maybe not," Charles agreed, "but you could have told me. I'm your brother, remember, and a telepath—if anyone would understand it'd be me."

"You never said anything about it either way," Raven objected. "Being a telepath doesn't necessarily make someone understanding. It just… Wasn't important, at the time."

"I would have understood," Charles insisted quietly. It was true that he'd never really voiced a position on sexuality, other than his vigorous pursuit of coeds; his mutation allowed him enough information on human sexual proclivities to make Kinsey furious with envy, but it had seemed a solved mystery to the telepath. Sure, he'd wondered why men and women could be attracted to members of the same sex in light of evolution, but he'd never doubted that their feelings were genuine, and Charles didn't believe in the cosmically objective morality other people used to justify their discrimination.

Charles had never felt the need to involve himself in that particular injustice—beyond his usual attempts to treat everyone nicely—but now he rather wished he had. "How is public perception now?" he asked, trying not to seem too stiflingly sympathetic.

"Oh, well, you know, these days people mostly just hate immigrants, but it's getting better. Magneto's really pushed the idea of men and women being equal, which helps, and there was that thing with the Spanish minister, but you know how people are—when things get rough, they turn to God, and these days God can be pretty unforgiving," Raven explained. "I just have to be careful who I tell."

"I see," Charles commented. He knew about the reactionary conservatives, of course: those people who wanted to be mutant and proud, but didn't want any part of racial or gender equality. Many of them had taken that to an extreme, insisting that their mutations were proof that evolution had meant them to be superior to their black neighbor, or to their wife. The idea of evolution having any purpose—much less one so specific—bemused Charles to no end, and he could only imagine how those views would themselves mutate once the lack of science education in the world at large made itself felt.

Raven regarded Charles apprehensively before inquiring, "Forgive me if I'm off the mark, here, but I thought… Are you and Magneto involved with each other?"

If Charles hadn't been blushing before, he certainly was now; he stammered, a little, because Raven always seemed to know when he was lying, and instead chose to obfuscate a little with, "It's not like that."

"Oh," Raven remarked, although it was less the sort of "oh" someone said when they were wrong and more the kind they would use when they were sorry to hear the wrong answer. "It's just, the way you talk about each other sometimes…"

Charles wondered what Erik had to say about him. "Well, we're still… _Friends_, but we have our differences and it can be exasperating. Say, can I meet your—girlfriend? Partner? Can I meet your partner sometime?"

"Oh." This was yet another version of the sound, Charles observed, as Raven continued, "She's Brotherhood, actually; that's mostly why Beast disapproves, by the way, not because he's all that hung up on the woman thing. Also everything she says is potentially classified? That is, I don't think you can, anytime soon. I'm sure you'll be able to eventually though!"

"Well," Charles began, taken aback slightly. "Can I know her name at least? How long have you been together?"

"Her name's Destiny," Raven told him, her eyes strangely human as they wrinkled with soft affection. "I met her—oh, almost back at the beginning, I think. It wasn't long after that when we—"

There was a knock at the door, interrupting her, and before Charles could call out it swung open. Erik had half a grin on his face before he noticed Raven and froze; likewise, she stopped mid-sentence and tensed in the way Charles knew meant she was considering shifting her shape.

"Magneto," Raven greeted, cautiously. "I didn't know you were coming over."

"Yes," Erik agreed, keeping his wariness mostly contained. "I visit sometimes."

"Charles told me you forgot your cape," Raven said, smiling with an almost aggressive friendliness.

Erik glanced over at the coat rack, gestured, and the clasp of the cape found its way into his hand. "That I did," he acknowledged. "You look human. Did Charles put you up to this?" He trained his gaze on the telepath, scrutinizing him. Charles hadn't even done anything and he already felt guilty; more urgently, however, his heart seemed to have sped up when Erik looked at him and watching the other man spin his cape up over his broad shoulders was far more interesting than it ought to have been. There was a certain deliberateness there, an economy of motion that appealed to Charles.

Meanwhile, Raven turned a gentle shade of pink. "No, it's a—an experiment, I guess, of Beast's. About how mutants treat people with more and less obvious mutations."

Frowning a little, Erik ceased glaring at Charles and nodded thoughtfully. "And what have you found, so far?"

Clearly her throat delicately, Raven replied, "Not much, yet, but I just started this morning."

"You'll have to tell me the results once you're out of that inferior skin," Erik stated. His eyes met Charles', just as intense as before, and the telepath wondered whether Erik could be any _more_ obvious in front of Raven. "The meeting got pushed back to later in afternoon. We won't be able to play chess tonight, I'm afraid."

"All right," Charles acquiesced. "I'll see you then?"

He was essentially dismissing Erik from his quarters with that, which was a bit risky, but the other man nodded. "Mystique," he said, acknowledging Raven. "Charles."

Then he left, leaving the two siblings to stare at each other awkwardly.

Exasperated and wistful, Raven asked, "Are you _sure_ you're not involved?"

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**lii.**

Charles stared sullenly out from his window and reassessed his earlier prediction.

He was probably going to end up having sex with Erik. Charles had reconciled this with himself, had prepared himself for that eventuality and had even volunteered. Everything was going to plan, so far, except that where Charles had envisioned himself giving in with stoic silence and calm surrender, he was instead rather more… _Involved_.

It was becoming increasingly clear that he could not do this and remain aloof. Charles couldn't very well back out, as he still had an agenda to pursue, but he desperately needed to come up with a plan in case he climbed into bed with Erik and _enjoyed_ it.

_Maybe it's not a bad thing to mix pleasure and work,_ some part of Charles' mind whispered, and he crushed it furiously because that was a _very bad_ idea. For all of Charles' past hedonism; for all that he knew that most men who loitered outside the park washrooms weren't actually attracted to other men; and for all that Charles wasn't in this situation by choice…

Charles could not share something like that with someone without becoming attached, and there was a possibility that he would have to be very unattached indeed to do what needed to be done.

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	13. Chapter 13

There, another long chapter! :D There will be more plot after this, but for now have a bunch of Erik and Charles hangin' out.

As usual, beta'd by LJ user idioticonion, who only makes me cry a little.

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**liii.**

"Sometimes allowing the world to rip itself apart seems like an appealing idea," Erik grumbled, pinning down a loaf of unyielding sourdough with one hand as the other sawed through it with a long knife. He was referring to the Brotherhood meeting the night before, where tempers all around had frayed nearly to the point of violence and no amount of threatening seemed able to defuse that potential. As a result, there was to be no meeting this day, leaving Erik and Charles time for a leisurely late breakfast.

They'd returned to the expansive, window-walled room Erik had brought him to the first time the two mutants dined together. Back then Charles had welcomed the openness of the place; had not truly been at ease until he could see the mountains stretching out into the atmospheric haze. Now… Now it was almost too much, and the telepath felt exposed and insignificant in the face of all that naked wilderness, translucent in the thin white light of the sun through the clouds.

"You don't need me to convince yourself to do the right thing," Charles told him, sipping at tea that, for all it strove for lavishness, had gone stale at least a year ago. There were no eggs this time, but the bread and butter looked rich and there was a jar of creamed honey claiming to be raspberry jam. "There are still beekeepers?"

"Of course there are," Erik said, and laid the fresh slice of sourdough onto a crumbling pile of its fellows. He brushed his finger over the slice's soft, fibrous innards in a contemplative sort of way. "Maybe I do need you to tell me what's right."

"You don't," Charles corrected. "You're perfectly capable of doing that yourself."

Erik's lips pressed together into a thin line as he spread butter onto the bread. "How can you say that after everything I've done?"

"Because it's true," Charles insisted; he _hoped_ it was true, at least. "You still know right from wrong."

The other man was silent and seemed no less agitated—in fact might have even been _more_ brooding than he had been before—as he wiped the excess butter back onto the dish and twisted open the jar of honey. Erik did not do all of these things by hand, but rather worked seamlessly between using his mind and physically handling the objects.

Charles tore his attention away from the smooth back-and-forth dance of Erik's power and would have met the man's gaze had Erik not been very intensely focused on making an even coat of honey. Charles hesitated, aware that he was probably pushing his luck, before offering, "You can _still_ do the right thing. You could let me—"

Erik snatched out and dragged Charles up from the chair by his lapel, partly across the table as Erik in turn leaned forward, bread forgotten and anger in his eyes as he hissed, "You _gave_ yourself to me, Charles. You're _mine_. I can do whatever I _want_ to you." He gave Charles a sharp shake to emphasize his words.

Fighting down panic, Charles projected an image of calm assurance—cockiness, even—as he responded, "Then do it. If you can do anything you want to me, if everything I have is already yours, then _take it_."

Erik's gaze was dark and fathomless and for a moment Charles was sure that he would do just that, that it would happen right there on the table with all the bread and butter and tea, and he focused on breathing, in and out, until finally Erik released him and Charles slumped back down into his chair.

Erik wasn't finished with him, however; Charles understood that he couldn't be allowed to win this argument, so he wasn't surprised when a slow, sickly smile spread over Erik's face; when Erik scraped the side of the previously abandoned knife over his index finger, creamed honey gathering thick and crumb-speckled around his knuckle. Charles' gut twisted with realization.

Still wearing that triumphant smirk, Erik reached across the small table and held his hand under Charles' nose, his honeyed finger curled out meaningfully. Charles glanced down at it and then back at Erik, incredulous, but Erik gave no indication that he was joking.

Charles felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment and helpless fury, but the worst part was that the smug bastard was right, damn him, because Charles _had_ given himself up to Erik, and no matter whether he backed down or accepted the challenge, Charles would be admitting defeat.

Well, this was his life now, apparently, but he was, after all, _Charles Xavier_, and if he was going to do this then it'd be while staring Erik defiantly in the eye so that the he couldn't forget exactly _what_ he was doing to _whom_.

Charles looked around the room to confirm that they were alone—they were—then dipped forward a little and closed his mouth over Erik's finger, his chin brushing Erik's hand. The telepath swept his tongue experimentally over honey and skin and the grit of the cream softened into a sweetness Charles had almost forgotten, tinged with the salt taste of Erik. An expression of blank shock set into the other man's face.

So Erik hadn't expected him to actually do it. This was perhaps evident in the way Erik had used a little too much honey; it was too thick and too much for Charles to simply lick off and be done, but instead of backing away Charles swallowed against Erik's skin, tongue rasping over callus, and continued. _This is what you're doing to me,_ Charles projected, despite the helmet. _This is what you're doing to your_ friend.

Erik shifted uncomfortably, as if he wanted to turn away from Charles' stare but couldn't; there was arousal in his eyes as Charles flicked his tongue over Erik's fingertip and wound it between his knuckles, but there was something else there, too, that he searched for as he traced the contours of Erik's nail. Charles saw it as he sucked the last of the honey from Erik's skin, stark and clear in the tilt of Erik's eyebrows and the wideness of his eyes: _guilt_.

Pulling away—the telepath couldn't help but notice how rough Erik's wet knuckles were against his lips—Erik cleared his throat a little and looked down at his plate, seemingly at a loss for what to do about his damp finger. Eventually he wiped it off on his napkin while making an excellent show of not being self-conscious about it at all, and when Erik turned his attention back to Charles he was all business.

"I'm going to announce development plans for that city you proposed tomorrow, on television," Erik stated, as if nothing had happened. "I'd like you to be there. You won't be filmed, but since it was your idea, you shouldn't have to watch from the other side of a screen."

Charles dabbed at his mouth with his sleeve, relishing the frown that drew from Erik; he felt remarkably pleased with himself for someone who had just been sucking on another man's finger. Giddy, almost, from the lingering panic of _what did I just do_ combined with the high of his success in provoking guilt from Erik. He'd won, more or less. "To be entirely honest with you, I only suggested it because I had nothing else to say."

"Your intuition is better than most men's deliberation," Erik countered. "In any event, none of the many arguments against your idea convinced me that it would fail."

Hesitating, because Charles wasn't entirely sure he wanted to go out of his way to help Erik but then again also didn't want to be the one not to point out something that could have saved lives, Charles began, "I'm fairly sure that the anti-extinctionists will see this as a step in the right direction; if they have any doubts it will be for your honesty, and that can only be solved with time." He took a deep breath and continued, "It's _your_ people who worry me. They're the ones who might see this as a betrayal, and who might take the first steps to violence."

Erik nodded slowly, his expression stern as steel. "As you said, they're my people. I will take care of them."

"Fair enough," Charles agreed reluctantly. "Do you have a name for it?"

"Hmm?" Erik queried, his eyebrows arched innocently.

"For the city. I presume that if you're going to appear to the public, you're going to give them a name they can latch onto," Charles explained. "Names build ideas."

Erik's voice was rich with amusement. "You'd know that, wouldn't you?"

"Certainly," the telepath confirmed. "You should too, _Magneto_."

Making a small gesture with his hand to signal that he understood, Erik dropped his gaze to the slice of bread he held and stated, "It has a name. Consider it a surprise."

"It was my idea," Charles protested, frowning. "I should get to hear it before everyone else."

Erik's only response was to glance up at Charles, showing the telepath his annoyance.

Charles huffed a laugh, and leaned back into his chair. "It's one of those humiliatingly optimistic names, isn't it? It's funny that you're embarrassed to tell me, considering what you just made me—"

The plate carrying the honeyed bread nearly upended into Charles' cardigan as Erik slid it across the table. "Eat," he commanded tersely, and then tore into the crust of his own slice.

Sighing, Charles picked up a piece and transferred it absently to his other hand. He considered trying again, mocking Erik further, but Charles decided to accept the success he'd already had. He'd made Erik feel bad about what he'd done—or at least, he'd goaded the man into _showing_ his discomfort. That had to be a step forward.

Charles felt stickiness between his fingers. Without really thinking about it he licked along his empty hand, then froze; he felt Erik's eyes on him from across the table but didn't acknowledge him, choosing instead to continue blithely and systematically cleaning the traces of honey from his hand.

He was disturbed to notice that it tasted different on his skin than on Erik's, but it bothered Charles more to realize that he preferred the sweet with a hint of salt.

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**liv.**

…_Guyal therefore drew himself apart and roamed the grassy hills of Sfere in solitude. But ever was his mind acquisitive, ever did he seek to exhaust the lore of all around him, until at last his father in vexation refused to hear further inquiries, declaring that all knowledge had been known, that the trivial and useless had been discarded, leaving a residue which was all…_

Charles blinked in dazed confusion as the sound of someone at the door interrupted his reading, and it took a few seconds for him to remember to invite that person in. He was not, however, surprised to see that it was Erik.

"Oh," Charles remarked. "I wasn't sure you'd be visiting."

"I always do when I have time," Erik replied. He removed his cape and paused. "Enjoying your new mobility?"

Charles glanced down at his legs, which lay stretched out along the length of the couch, and spread his toes beneath his socks; they ached sharply in response. "I'm sure I didn't know I even had all these muscles until they started hurting."

"I'm sure you did," Erik argued, stalking closer, "but I know what you mean." He looked down at Charles, from his eyes to his knees to his feet, but Charles occupied every inch of the couch and didn't feel willing to disturb his wayward limbs for Erik's sake. After a moment of consideration, however, Erik simply lifted Charles' heels and slid in beneath them. Then Erik arranged the telepath's ankles over his thigh and wrapped his fingers around his feet, pressing circles into them with his thumbs.

Charles winced as pain blossomed beneath Erik's grip, then… Faded, becoming instead a healthy ache as Erik coaxed the stress from all those tiny, long-unused muscles between tibia and metatarsus. Charles thought his surprised relief must be visible on his face, because Erik wore a tiny self-satisfied smile as he continued his ministrations, keeping his head turned slightly away so that, perhaps, Charles couldn't quite see his expression.

Charles held Raven's book half-open in his lap, using one finger as a bookmark as he brushed absently over the pages, entranced by the sight of Erik—destroyer of civilizations and wearer of fancy helmets—giving him a _foot rub_ of all things and apparently quite content to do so and, well, not bad at it at all. In fact, the geneticist had to admit, past the fuzz in his mind from whence his sanity had fled, that Erik was pretty good at it. Parts of himself Charles hadn't even known were tense began easing out of their stranglehold on his nerves, and it was possible that his shoulders had just dropped by several inches.

Wordlessly, Erik moved on to Charles' ankle, acknowledging the spurs of bone with a slow wringing squeeze before pushing his fingers up along tibialis and soleus, lifting the hem of Charles' trousers before the progress of his hands down Charles' calve muscles, converging along the telepath's Achilles' tendon, brought the fabric back to its place.

"Have you ever studied anatomy, Erik?" Charles asked, because he desperately needed to say _something_.

Erik hummed in assent. "Of course."

"I wouldn't have thought that you'd need to," the geneticist admitted, as Erik's hands began working along his other leg.

"It's always useful," Erik murmured, sounding distracted, but Charles didn't believe more a moment that Erik was anything but entirely aware. "Even for someone of my talents. It's a part of knowing your enemy's—or potential enemy's—weaknesses."

"Oh." Charles regarded his varied and intimate knowledge of human biology gingerly; he supposed he _could_ probably use that understanding to his advantage, if he wanted to. Still, that struck him as a particularly grim interpretation of learning. "What about me?"

Erik glanced up, eyebrows raised questioningly.

Moistening his lips a little, Charles clarified, quietly, "Do you keep track of my weaknesses?"

"You're not an enemy," Erik assured him, in a way that told Charles that yes, he did. "But to name a weakness of yours… Hm, massage, I would guess."

Charles wondered if maybe that was true; not just massage, specifically, but Erik in general. Even before he'd surrendered himself as Erik's prisoner, the telepath had never reacted to Erik in quite the way the others expected him to; the students had all been furious about what happened on the beach, of course, and they'd started calling him Magneto almost before they even learned of Erik's decision to re-name himself, but it went beyond that, didn't it?

Unlike Raven, Erik had never been especially gentle with the students on the occasions when he and Charles met on the battlefield. In fact, Charles could recall without any difficulty an instance when Alex, who had once been the only student to approach anything like an accord with the man, had attempted to blast Erik through a wall only to end up pinned with a piece of rebar through his thigh. The steel had missed severing any major arteries—Erik's knowledge of anatomy at work, perhaps?—but it had nonetheless left Alex unable to walk unassisted for quite some time.

Charles knew as well as if he'd actually had the conversation that if he asked Erik about it now, he'd only reply that he had been as efficient as he could and had done what was practical. And yet, the telepath couldn't feel the rage he ought to have—couldn't stop pitying Erik for what he'd done to himself, because for all that Erik liked to blame Shaw, it had been his own decision to continue down that path rather than make his own life.

Perhaps Erik had _always_ resided within his blind spot; maybe Charles was here now, allowing Erik to chip away at him with small kindnesses, not because of his four years of captivity and isolation but because it would have happened in any case.

_And perhaps_, Charles thought to himself scornfully, _that's still just an excuse._ He cleared his throat softly as Erik's long fingers edged up past his knee, wrapping around the tendons framing Charles' thigh. "You're poaching," he chastened.

"I assure you, my intentions are entirely honorable," Erik said, meeting Charles' gaze as he leaned partially over him, his hands stilled against Charles' knee. His eyes were bright with fond amusement, and Charles felt his breath catch; _don't look at me like that,_ he wanted to say, to plead; _don't look at me like we're friends. Don't be nice._

Instead, he kept his calm accountant's expression and corrected, "For now."

"For now, yes," Erik agreed, and retreated to his corner of the couch, smoothing his palms down Charles' legs as he went, until he settled them back around Charles' feet. The telepath had a sudden moment of déjà vu, recalling the tense week when Erik had tested the feeling in his feet every night. It seemed to have happened ages ago, to a man with different problems.

Erik tapped an index finger against the arch of Charles' foot. "I've heard word that Beast took the time to clear a work station for you in the labs, and that if you wish to use it you should arrive very early tomorrow while Beast still has hair to tear out."

Now Charles truly couldn't breathe; couldn't inhale or exhale without the risk of his vocal cords becoming involved at some point. He would be a scientist again; he'd be working, doing the things he had studied for years to do. The chance to conspire with Beast was almost secondary.

"Thank you," Charles said, finally; whispered, almost, and Erik gave his toes an affectionate squeeze.

"Don't," he warned. "You spent your life on science; you _should_ be in a lab."

Charles nodded silently, wondering bitterly why, if that was the case, he'd had to bargain for it; unable, despite his brooding, to stop feeling grateful.

Erik reached out and patted Charles' knee. "Do you feel up to bending these old logs? I'm interested in finding out more about that book you're holding."

Tilting the little paperback to look at it as if he'd forgotten what it was, Charles blinked a couple times, swallowed, and replied, "I—probably, yes. It's Raven's book; I'm almost done with it, actually, you might not want to start at the end." Technically, as it was an anthology of related tales, he was in fact at the start of a short story; still, Charles firmly believed that collections such as this were meant to be read in a certain order.

"_The Dying Earth_," Erik read, craning his neck. "That sounds a little pessimistic. I've read enough beginnings in the past couple weeks, however; perhaps an ending will make for a refreshing change. If it's a happy ending I'll even consider reading the rest."

"It's not about the end of the world," Charles protested, warming to the subject; successfully distracted from his melancholy. "Well, it is, but mostly it's just set in the far future, near the end of the sun's life and after Earth's golden years."

"Pessimistic," Erik repeated knowingly, and Charles suspected he was being mocked. "Come here, and I'll see for myself." He offered his hand to Charles, and after a moment the geneticist slipped his own beneath Erik's thumb and clutched tightly as Erik pulled him over to his end of the couch. Charles grimaced as his legs complained, and Erik wrapped his arm around him in a comforting sort of fashion, holding Charles close as he pressed a kiss to Charles' temple through his hair.

Charles wriggled a little, torn between finding a comfortable position and freezing motionless where he sat, until Erik lift his arm in invitation for Charles to move where he liked. The telepath took the opportunity to pull his feet out from underneath him, angling his legs to the side before reclining back to settle gingerly against the other man's chest. After a moment to be sure that he would remain there, Erik draped his arm back around Charles and flicked the fingers of his other hand at the book.

"Hand it over, Charles, unless you'd prefer to read," Erik murmured just above his ear, voice languorous and low and just the right pitch to slither into Charles' head and play gleeful havoc with the more primitive parts of his hindbrain. Glad that Erik couldn't see the reddening of his skin, Charles offered the book wordlessly, and Erik plucked it from his numb grasp.

Erik's fingers slid between the pages, tutting as he found the dog-eared corner Charles had left off at. "For shame, Charles; who taught you to handle other people's books this way?"

Charles' blush intensified. "It's how Raven marks her pages; she likes when she can see where I stopped."

He felt a silent laugh shake Erik's chest. "Then who taught _her_, hmm?"

"Not me," Charles grumbled, and refused to defend himself further as he watched Erik fuss one-handed over the bent page, folding the corner back until it lay straight again and trying futilely to smooth over the lingering crease until finally he propped the book open against Charles' arm where they could both see.

"…_Hearing his father's angry statement Guyal_—" Erik paused. "Guy-al? Gu-yal?" Charles gave a tiny indifferent shrug and Erik continued, "_—Guyal said, 'One more question, then I ask no more. …You have often referred me to the Curator; who is he, and where may I find him, so as to allay my ache for knowledge?_"

As Erik read, his hand drifted up from Charles' ribs to his sternum, seeming surprised to encounter the buttons of the geneticist's shirt. Charles looked on as Erik fumbled blindly with a single button without ever halting in his reading; he felt very calm, even as he wondered whether Erik would stop with just one button. Charles was warm, the rumble of Erik's voice surrounded him, and he was going to be doing science again; the price seemed inconsequential, at that moment.

The button popped free and Erik tucked his fingers through the gap, slipping his hand in between Charles' shirts to press the palm of his hand over the left side of Charles' chest. Erik's hand was only under his shirt, but Charles felt like his fingers had plunged in beneath his skin and startled his heart somewhere altogether more deep and personal than the cotton of his tee-shirt.

Charles sat unmoving as Erik read, which took quite a while because Charles had not been as close to the end as he'd thought. Erik did not complain as time crept by, his hand a still and inordinately heavy weight pinning Charles to him, and the geneticist for his part let his eyes slide out of focus as he stared at the creeping pages, the words a half-understood music in his ears. He had an early morning, sure, but Charles doubted he'd be able to fall asleep if he tried right then.

Finally, Erik drew the story's protagonists out from the darkness of a ruined museum, full of the knowledge impressed into their brains by ancient technologies. "_Guyal, leaning back on the weathered pillar, looked up to the stars. 'Knowledge is ours, Shierl—all of knowing to our call. And what shall we do?'_

"_Together they looked at the stars._" Charles couldn't tell whether it was a good sense for storytelling or genuine wistfulness that tinged Erik's voice as he concluded, "_'What shall we do…'_"

They were silent for a moment before Erik hummed to himself. "Sad ending."

Charles shifted his legs, collecting his wits again. "But he got everything he wanted. He had the answers to all his questions."

Erik gave him a look that suggested he had truly expected better of the telepath. "He wasn't _happy_. He didn't want to know the answers, he wanted to _find_ them."

"Mm," Charles grunted, unconvinced. "Perhaps."

Charles felt Erik's breath puff out into his hair a second before the other man's nose plunged into it. "For a telepath, you really are astoundingly clueless," he muttered against Charles' scalp.

"I think you mean that, for a _scientist_, I'm astoundingly practical," Charles argued, plucking the book from Erik's grip. "As much as I enjoy lab work, it would be more useful to be able to provide concrete answers to our scientific problems."

He felt Erik's grin, then the other man pulled back a little. "I'm beginning to suspect you didn't pay any attention at all; more's the pity, because this story might have been written for you."

"I wouldn't have thought you'd like it," Charles replied, instead of attempting to disprove Erik.

"It's a bit whimsical for my tastes," Erik admitted, then pulled his hand up inside the telepath's shirt and tugged Charles closer, growling low into his ear, "Although I have been known to make exceptions."

Charles could say nothing in reply, only stared straight ahead, very aware that Erik was still hovering near, inches from his face; aware of Erik's breathing against him, of the shift of his muscles behind Charles' shoulders.

Erik's voice wound around him. "I could tell you the name, if you really want to know. Of your city."

Charles darted his tongue along his lower lip before saying, "You don't have to."

The edge of the helmet caught Charles' ear, slipping behind it as Erik's nose brushed over his cheek. "It's one of those stupidly optimistic names you mentioned."

"Well then maybe you'd better not; I might laugh," Charles cautioned him, his stomach fluttering as Erik's other hand came to rest against it.

"I don't mind if you laugh," Erik murmured; Charles turned to look at him but was halted by Erik's lips on his sideburns.

The geneticist swallowed, his mouth feeling woolen as he agreed, "All right. Then tell me."

"You want to know?" Erik asked, his tone full of teasing humor and something darker.

Charles sighed in exasperation and this time when he turned his head around to see Erik he didn't let himself be stopped; Erik's eyes were crinkled with amusement and dipped down the hollow of Charles' throat before meeting his gaze.

"I'd like if you told me," Charles replied softly, and Erik smiled, withdrawing his hand from Charles' shirt to steady his jaw.

"_Legacy_," Erik whispered, almost as an afterthought as he leaned down to take Charles' mouth. The telepath made a small, startled noise in his throat, clutching at Erik's jacket and feeling terribly unbalanced with his body twisted strangely in Erik's grasp; he nipped at Erik's lip to exact some measure of revenge, which was perhaps not his brightest idea because when Erik bit back it _hurt_, until Erik turned gentle again and swept his tongue over the spot in an apologetic sort of way.

Charles broke away from the kiss, leaning his face away into Erik's hand as Erik continued without pause, scraping his teeth mockingly down Charles' throat. "You're right, that is fairly horrifying," Charles gasped; beneath his hands Erik's chest shuddered with soft laughter, but Charles didn't join in.

Morning couldn't come quickly enough; more to the point, his conversation with Beast couldn't come quickly enough.

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	14. Chapter 14

Hello all! This is again largely a plot chapter—they seem to be following an every-other sort of pattern—but things are finally moving in the story and I'm excited for what comes next!

I also wanted to take a moment to mention that, for this chapter, I wrote about "X-gal" only to realize several hours later that it totally sounds like the name of an X-Men character. It's not—it's a molecule used as an indicator in gene cloning—but it _is_ a rather hilarious coincidence that I will totally laugh about if I ever get to clone any genes.

Once again, beta'd by the LJ's lovely idioticonion!

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**lv.**

"Professor! Yes; yes, excellent. Come this way. I'll show you where you'll be working," Beast said, beckoning. All around, lab workers rushed to and fro with the careful precision of people who were used to carrying delicate and often spillable objects.

"Hello to you as well, Beast," Charles replied wryly.

The leonine scientist stopped, blinking in dazed confusion. "Oh. Oh, yes; hello, Charles. It's good to see you." Beast began walking again, but he half-turned to address Charles as he wheeled along behind.

"I can't say how useful it will be to have you here," Beast stated, but within his head he offered a boundless, earnest gratitude; Charles smiled and wove a corner of his surface thoughts into the other scientist's mind, allowing Beast to see, for a moment, his happiness at simply _being_ there.

Aloud, Charles joked, "Well, at the very least I could coordinate centrifuge use. I was always adept at that."

Beast nodded. "I'm sure; that would certainly help increase efficiency. Anything helps."

"All right then," Charles agreed, mostly because he hadn't really expected to be taken seriously. Absently, he noticed one of the younger lab assistants struggling to focus on a conversion, and decided he might as well start then; _don't forget to convert back to milliliters,_ Charles whispered into the boy's mind, and the assistant shifted the decimal place three places to the left without even knowing he'd been about to make a mistake. It wouldn't have been a very costly mistake, exactly, but… It felt nice to do.

They reached a door and Beast pushed through it quickly before suddenly halting. "This isn't the cloning lab," he declared, bewildered. "This is my office."

"So it seems," Charles said aloud, then silently urged Beast to let him in and to close the door behind them.

"Is there something you needed?" the blue man asked warily, his claws closing automatically around a pen on his desk.

"Yes, in fact; just a moment," Charles requested, and placed his fingers to his temple. He skimmed through Beast's thoughts until he reached a landmark: the image of a chipped floor tile, the smell of bleach and nutrient agar, the sound of ventilation fans humming. Charles tugged lightly, snaring the single line of association he had left there to draw Beast's memories of their conspiring back to the surface.

Beast slumped against his desk, leaning heavily on one hand. "Jesus," he breathed. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that."

"It's probably best if you don't," Charles speculated wryly.

"Of course," Beast agreed, still sounding a little out of sorts. "We should probably get to it then. I keep most of the biology department's rare and expensive compounds in this cabinet; everything else is in a locked box in the negative twenty and… You knew that already, didn't you?"

"Yes," Charles began, and then to make that sound a little less unsettling added, "Anyway, I assumed that you wouldn't need help remembering anything you used often enough to keep on the shelves out there,"

"Of course," the leonine scientist repeated, his fur smoothing down fractionally. He pulled out a ring of keys and bent down to unlock the stout gray cabinet, which he otherwise seemed to be using to support either two or three stacks of books, depending on how they were counted.

Rather than sort through all the little plastic and glass bottles, Beast unhooked a clipboard and ran his claw down a list of sharp black typewritten words, a frown creasing his black lips as he reached the end of the first page and turned the paper over to another, and then another. After several minutes of this, Beast growled softly and tossed the clipboard carelessly onto his desk.

"No luck?" Charles asked, breaking the brooding silence.

"We won't find what we're looking for here," Beast declared, combing his fingers through his mane. "We would never have found what we need here; we need to look in Medical."

"That's a problem, I gather," Charles remarked. There was no way this could go smoothly, was there? _If only narcotic lipstick actually existed_, he mused, then quickly amended, _or at least, narcotic lip balm._

"Well, I have _access_ to medical storage; I can request any drug or sample I want, actually, but of course it's all inventoried and I can't just submit paperwork asking for a full list of all fast-acting poisons without inviting a lot of suspicion and another round of that Frost woman rummaging through my head," Beast explained. He turned to pace, but with Charles and his chair in the room there wasn't enough space for him to do more than simply circle on the spot, eyeing the books and project binders on his crowded shelves.

"She wouldn't find anything," Charles mused out loud, his eyebrows drawing tight in thought. He tried to ignore the part about "fast-acting poison," reasoning that it ought to be simplicity itself to find a strong sedative in a medical storage. "But that would raise the question as to why you didn't remember ordering the list."

"Exactly," Beast confirmed, coming to a halt. "I need to work out what to ask for, how to word it so that nobody thinks it's unusual. _Rrrrgh_, what I need is _time_."

Charles felt his heart skip a beat. "You have time now," he stated, but it was more plea than fact.

"I don't," the other scientist replied, meeting Charles' eyes regretfully. "I have a meeting with several of the project leaders in Engineering in ten minutes, and there are other places I'm expected to be between now and when you have to leave for Magneto's publicity stunt."

Charles held his breath; he wanted to shout, to tear his hair out, to seize Beast by his lab coat and explain _no, you don't _understand_, I need this to be done now_, but he did no such thing; after all, they both had their roles to fulfill. Instead, Charles exhaled to agree, "All right. Well. We'll be seeing quite a lot of each other now that I'm in the lab as well, won't we? You'll have to arrange a date to work near me so that you can think about it without worrying about Ms. Frost surprising us."

Beast nodded. "It will be soon; don't worry. I'll be able to work with you soon. It won't take me all that long to compose a letter once I get started."

"Of course," Charles agreed, trying not to show his disappointment. "Now, as you need to leave, you ought to show me where I'll be working before you make yourself late."

"Certainly," the leonine scientist concurred, and then wavered, uncertain. Charles gave him a little tired smile.

"You'll get all of these memories back some day," the telepath told him, touching Beast's thoughts with assurances of warmth and compassion. "We won't need to hide for much longer, if all goes well."

_If all goes well_. They both knew that this was the key phrase; if it _didn't_ go to plan, well, they wouldn't have to hide their plans _then_ either, but neither Charles nor Beast particularly cared to contemplate that option. As men of science, they were resolved to be solution-orientated.

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**lvi.**

"All right, Professor, meet your new teacher: Hannah," Beast proclaimed, gesturing broadly around to the single other occupant of the tiny culture room.

The young woman who had greeted Charles the first time he visited the labs peered over at him owlishly, perched neatly on top of a tall stool and curled over a small glass tray. After a moment wherein the two scientists stared at each other, she re-covered the tray with its lid, set down the long tool she held in her hand, and disposed of her gloves.

"Hello," Hannah mumbled, reaching down to shake Charles' hand.

Charles clasped it firmly and gave her his best, friendliest smile. "I'm Charles Xavier; how do you do?"

"Fine," she squeaked, then cleared her throat a little and said, louder, "Forgive me if I'm wrong, but are you _the_ Charles Xavier?"

Grinning, the telepath replied brightly, "As far as I know, yes. What do you think, will you be able to instruct a lost cause like me?"

Hannah looked him over, taking his question at face value. Her eyes fled from his and drifted down to his chair, then quickly away to his hands and the material of his suit. "You're a bit well dressed for it," she observed, a cautious smile twitching at her lips.

Charles grimaced theatrically. "Ah, well, I'll have to come better-prepared next time; in rags perhaps. If you'd show me around? I believe Beast has somewhere to be."

Beast, who had been squinting over his spectacles at Hannah's notes, looked up sharply. "What? Oh, I'm sure I still have at least fifteen minutes before I have to be at my meeting; I can stay and talk a little."

Feeling a twinge of chagrin, Charles sent Beast a discreet urge to check the time. The blue scientist glanced at his watch and bristled. "Oh! I'm running late, actually; you two get to know each other, and Charles, I know I've wrecked your labs before but I would consider it a great kindness if you did not destroy mine. See you tomorrow!"

With that, Beast ducked out the door, leaving the two biologists alone with each other.

Hannah coughed softly across the back of her hand. "So, you're a telepath, aren't you?" she asked. Charles had to lean forward slightly to make out the words over the hum of the ventilation, but in her head she whispered, _don't read my mind, please_, and he could hear it just fine.

Charles winced in an apologetic sort of way and tried not to look hurt, because he wasn't, really; it was perfectly understandable that other people didn't like when strangers rummaged around in their heads, and it would likely be a while before the world adjusted to the existence of telepaths. Instead, he raised his eyebrow and smiled rather suggestively, because he'd often found that a little innocent flirtation went a lot farther to reassure some people than did promises. "I'll keep my hands to myself. Now, I must say I'm not sure what the etiquette is for it these days, but what about you? What sets you apart?"

"Thank you," Hannah replied, relaxing enough to reach for another pair of gloves. "It's not rude to ask—I'm an empath, but don't go thinking that means you can sell me on how your life would be so much better if I'd do all the cleaning up."

"I'd never dream of it," Charles protested, affecting shock. "Why, cleaning up is my favorite part. I can't get enough of the smell of ethanol."

She peered at him as if trying to decide whether the geneticist was mocking her, but finally she smiled and slid off from the stool, snatching up a pile of Petri dishes. "Well then we'd best make a mess, hadn't we? That table there is yours; if you'd spray it down and get a flame going, you can spread some _E. coli_ on these plates and I'll tell you about a little about X-gal and beta-galactosidase. That is, depending on whether you've… When was the last time you worked in a lab?"

"Four and a half… Maybe five years ago," Charles estimated, maneuvering himself in front of the table—much lower than the chest-high benches around the rest of the room—and picking out a spray bottle filled with seventy percent ethanol. The table hadn't yet had any projects strewn across it, so it was a simple matter of dousing it with the alcohol and allowing it to evaporate.

"Hm," Hannah grunted, and he didn't need to read her mind to know that she was mentally calculating all the changes that had gone on in their field since that time. From the length of her silence, there were rather a lot of them. "Tell me, what do you know about restriction enzymes?"

Charles smiled to himself, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. "In practice, very little. Why don't you explain it to me?"

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**lvii.**

When Charles arrived at the studio—he would never _not_ be surprised by the fact that Erik's mansion had its own television studio—the man himself was still nowhere to be found and Charles' escort excused himself to go do something that was anywhere else but there.

But that was all right; Charles simply parked himself in the shadows alongside some towering electronics and folded his hands in his lap to watch industrious technicians and electrical engineers scurry through wires and around the hulking silhouettes of film cameras, their minds full of the buzz of their work. A woman dressed all in black with hastily-tied blonde hair fussed with the navy blue curtains behind what was clearly the stage, adjusting and re-adjusting the folds so that they all hung evenly.

These were all just normal people, who had likely never held a gun or killed anyone or had to take any kind of oath of allegiance. They weren't soldiers; they were professionals—they were, in some way, Charles' people, rather than Erik's. He wondered whether Erik could ever sit back and simply _observe_ as Charles did now, without needing any special interest in the proceedings. Somehow, he rather doubted it.

Charles felt a dark amusement at that thought, but it wasn't his own; he glanced over to see that Emma Frost stood next to him, scantily clad as usual despite the ever-present chill and appearing absolutely bored.

"Well, look who it is," she drawled. "Charles Xavier, the secret conscience of the new regime, here to make sure we don't swat any flies."

Charles pulled his lips taut. "Emma. Bitter that I've taken over your job on the council, I take it?"

"Hardly," Emma scoffed. "You can play court jester all you want; it gives me time for more entertaining work, like convincing your friends that they chose the wrong side. Gently, of course." She offered him an image of just how gently she meant, and Charles took it politely, keeping his face impassive at the memory—_yesterday before lunch_, the geneticist understood—of a resistance fighter, a mutant, eyes blankly unseeing as Emma tore into his mind and overpowered his will in the course of bending him to the Brotherhood's cause.

"That's exactly the sort of thing that will make the rest of the mutant population fear us, once this initial turmoil is resolved," Charles cautioned the other telepath, his tone mild.

"As well they should," Emma remarked coolly. "Although they won't remember it, of course. I make sure of that." She tilted her head and glanced up at the ceiling as if she'd just been struck by an idea. "You know, you could see if Magneto will let you come down and try your hand at it. I'm sure it'd be a great comfort to these people to know that their savior is still alive and well—right before you wipe their minds."

Before Charles could retort, her eyes darted to the side and that was all the warning Charles had before Erik joined them. "Emma," he greeted simply, and then the two of them exchanged a long look; finally, Emma nodded and left the geneticist to Erik's company.

The Brotherhood leader turned to Charles and glanced over him; likewise, Charles scrutinized Erik. It appeared that someone had given his face a quick pass with makeup; mostly, probably, to cover up the healing cuts and bruises that lingered on Erik's skin since his encounter out in the Atlantic. The effect was disconcerting, not in the least because Charles couldn't imagine that Erik would ever consent to anything so superficial, despite the evidence standing before him. Still, it was tantalizing to think that, up until moments ago, the man might have been sitting somewhere nearby with his helmet off, thoughts bare save for whatever it was that reinforced the walls against telepaths.

"How do I look?" Erik asked, a tentative smile fidgeting at the edges of his mouth.

"About the same as usual," Charles commented, and Erik seemed disappointed, as if that hadn't been the answer he'd wanted. It was true, however; he really didn't look much different. Less tired, perhaps, and a little younger for it, but the tattered remains of fatigue still hung across Erik's face, visible because Charles knew where to find them. Still, he was making a good effort to hide it.

Erik glanced around, then stepped into the shadows with Charles, blending in all the more for his black cape. His body shielded them from sight as he leaned down to settle his hand over Charles', the smooth material of the glove oddly like and unlike human skin in its warmth and even texture.

"Is this a good idea, Charles?" Erik's voice was soft and confidential, his eyes urgent and searching. "You said it wasn't something you'd really thought about before suggesting. Are you still sure it's a good idea? I could make a very different announcement today; no one outside knows about this yet."

Charles hesitated; he had his doubts, but Erik wasn't asking for doubts; he wanted platitudes, no matter how empty they were. In any event, they needed to do _something_ if there was to be any hope of reconciling things between the anti-extinctionists and the Brotherhood before the situation erupted into violence. "As far as I can tell, this is our best option."

Pushing forward, Erik kept hold of both Charles' gaze and his hand, his grasp on both becoming more insistent. "You didn't really answer my question," he observed, a note of worry creeping into his tone.

Charles exhaled and tore his eyes away from Erik's to look down at their hands; Erik, too, glanced down in apprehension as the geneticist twisted his fingers around and then cradled the Brotherhood leader's hand in both of his own, lifting it off from the arm of the chair. Erik allowed him, wearing a small, tight frown.

Bringing Erik's hand up to his face, Charles pressed his lips to the backs of Erik's fingers. They twitched absently, nervously against his chin; the glove was either leather or vinyl but either way almost entirely unlike kissing something human.

Erik's expression was perhaps the barest Charles had ever seen on him since returning from British Columbia; his mouth was still a calm line of composure but the tips of his eyebrows slanted up beneath the curve of the helmet and his eyes were wide and beseeching, uneasy and doubtful. They were not the eyes of someone about to stride out and confidently commit to doing the right thing, so Charles turned Erik's hand over in his own and kissed into his palm.

"I'm sure it's a good idea," Charles lied, glancing up again.

Erik swallowed, the shadows in the hollows of his cheeks fluttering, and his face slowly relaxed as he nodded. "Then consider it done," he murmured, extricating his hand from Charles' to slide it up the telepath's jaw—Charles thought he could feel the chill smudge of his own saliva from Erik's glove—before ducking down to touch their lips together; for just a moment the tip of Erik's tongue brushed his and then Erik was standing again, stepping away.

It was well-timed; at that very moment one of the technicians came around the corner and froze upon seeing the pair, but they were no longer doing anything suspicious and Charles wondered if Erik could sense the metal in everyone's clothing as they moved around. It would certainly be a useful ability to have, especially if Erik had any further plans to corner him in public.

Erik stared back at the tech until the woman stammered a greeting and an apology and went to do something else, then looked back down at the telepath. "Enjoy the speech, Charles. I'll see you later." With that, he swept away and went to stand in the bright lights near the open part of the floor that made the stage; almost immediately, a small flock of assistants alighted around him, checking the lay of his cape and the tilt of his helmet and offering water in case his throat felt dry.

Charles scrubbed at the side of his face absently, remaining in the shadows. Around him, electricians scurried amongst the maze of technology, checking all the wires and knobs and dials one last time before the cameras were turned on. The geneticist kept one hand on the rim of a wheel in case they asked him to move, but they all rather neatly avoided him and ducked sightlessly around him until Charles felt a bit like he was surrounded by a school of cleaner wrasses, the parasite-eating fish of the ocean reef, attending to their larger electronic clients.

Finally, however, activity slowed and voices grew hushed; Erik stood poised at the midst of all that attention, looking pensively down at the floor and Charles wondered how this had become his life, and when had a doctorate in genetics become qualification enough to dictate politics to a genocidal tyrant?

Except that it was becoming abundantly clear that the genetics didn't matter, had never mattered except that DNA, that sugar-spined molecule, had tangled him into this mess and acted as the catalyst in binding Charles to Erik. Genetics didn't matter, molecules didn't matter, and none of the big fancy words he'd spent so many nights reciting could come close to touching on the reason Erik trusted him in exchange for a kiss into the palm of his hand.

Charles felt very tired, suddenly, as the cameras hummed to life, ready to broadcast in Technicolor to a world full of black-and-white televisions, and the shape of a man who called himself Magneto began, in a voice that was both like and unlike Erik's, to speak as if he hadn't just minutes before doubted his own words.

"_For the first time, I stand before you to address not only my fellow mutants, but all peoples of this Earth, not with an edict but with a suggestion—that rather than look to the past to inspire ourselves to anger and violence, we look toward the future, to preserve that most unique of Earth's resources: intelligent civilization…_"

Charles closed his eyes and leaned over to rest his head against the machine next to him; it was warm like an animal and sent a deep hum through the base of his skull. It didn't matter if Erik truly believed his own speech, or why he did; all that mattered was that the rest of the world believed it, and that maybe they could find a peaceful solution for all this nonsense.

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	15. Chapter 15

This may be fairly gratuitous, but hey, parts of it aren't! It was a fun experiment, suggested to me by my awesome beta, idioticonion on LJ. She also caught my horrible chess faux pas so that I didn't make myself look like a _complete_ idiot.

Yes, yes, my secret is revealed: I don't play chess. Go ahead and boo me now.

Anyway, thanks for reading! I'm continually amazed that people are actually still keeping up with this!

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**lviii.**

They played chess that night, for once; or rather, Charles played chess, and Erik stared at the board contemplatively.

Eventually, with a little roll of his eyes, Charles reached over and took it upon himself to flick Erik's king over for him; the other man started, blinking.

"I didn't concede," he protested vaguely.

"Oh, were you playing too?" Charles asked, raising his eyebrow sardonically.

Erik looked down at the remaining pieces, very few of which were his own. "Evidently not," he sighed.

"You're probably giving yourself white hair, you know," Charles remarked.

Erik smirked and tapped a finger against the side of his helmet, peering up at Charles enigmatically. "Wouldn't you like to know," he teased.

"If you're offering," Charles replied, although the interest had gone from his voice. Things between the two of them were complicated, but Charles knew at least that it would not be so easy to coax the helmet from Erik's head.

Sure enough, Erik bared his teeth in a grin but only dropped his hands to the table, pushing it aside. "That's enough for me, Charles; I'll have to beg off and challenge you to a rematch some time when I can concentrate."

"Of course," Charles agreed, watching as the table continued to trundle away on its own. There were times—not many, because he was quite happy with himself on most days—but there were times when he wished his own power were more physical; less easily thwarted. Well, then again, there hadn't been anything that could reliably stop his abilities before the helmets, except for other telepaths.

Erik rose from the couch in a smooth, lithe movement, and in one step came close enough to bend at the waist and bring his hands to hover at either side of Charles' head; for a moment he simply held them there, examining the telepath's face while wearing a soft little smile, before completing the motion, smoothing Charles' hair back behind his ears and then placing his hands on Charles' shoulders.

Erik leaned forward and brushed his lips against the geneticist's forehead, and Charles closed his eyes as Erik's chin scratched over the bridge of his nose. "You could do great things," he murmured, somewhere above Charles' eyebrows. "You could do a lot of good, if you stopped resisting me."

"I'm not resisting you, Erik," Charles whispered back, his eyelids still lying shut. He opened them as Erik pulled away and saw that the other man was looking at him as if he were being pitiably dense.

"Not like this," Erik said, caressing the geneticist's cheek with his thumb. He took that same hand and bumped the tips of his first two fingers into the center of Charles' forehead. "_Here_. You have the chance to create a new world, and you're avoiding it."

Charles glanced down at his lap, wearing a little wry smile. "Well. It can't be helped."

Erik's mouth settled into a firm line and he regarded Charles again for a long moment, cradling the line of Charles' face in his hand. There was something beautiful about the creases around his eyes, in the dip of his eyelashes, and his irises tended toward green in the low warm light.

It was strange to think that this same man ran an organization that not only condoned brainwashing, but—presumably—personally approved it. It was strange to look into his eyes and see a person looking back.

Eventually, Erik patted the telepath's cheek and stood straight. "Good night, Charles," he urged.

"'Night," Charles muttered, his gaze falling to his knees.

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**lix.**

He dreamed he had been born human, although the face he wore was anything but and if he _had_ eyes then they certainly weren't visible. In the strange logic of dreams this did not actually prevent him from seeing, but he told everyone he met that he was blind and he knew that they looked at him with equal parts pity and disgust for the betrayal of his flesh.

_There's a monster that lives down in the well_ was another thing he said to everyone he spoke to, and each one of them laughed and asked, _But how can you know if you can't see it_? So he would wander aimlessly, alone, on to the next person and insist that no, they really ought to come check, there was a monster deep in the well and someone should take a look in there and maybe do something about it before anybody died.

He could taste the gray dust of the land on his tongue.

Finally he found a soldier who stared solemnly into where his eyes would have been if he'd had them—(how did he know if he couldn't see?)—and replied, _I believe you, but you see, my boy is missing and I need to find him before I can do anything about any monsters_.

_I don't know what he looks like_, he confessed, aware of the mess radiation and stray genetics had made of his face. _I don't know what anyone looks like, so I can't help you_.

_Then we're both out of luck, aren't we_? the soldier observed, and Charles jolted awake.

The telepath stared up at the ceiling, heart racing and mind still a thousand miles away; he blinked rapidly and—he couldn't quite resist the urge—reached up feel at his face with one hand, urgently at first until at last he let free a long sigh and clutched at nose and eyes alike in relief.

Charles did not believe in dream symbolism, and for that he was glad; in any event, he was fairly certain that it had been someone else's nightmare, picked up sometime during the day and then carried around deep in his subconscious before springing out into his own dreams at night.

When the number of people whose minds he was able to read was more limited, it had been far easier for Charles to deduce the source of these stray fragments; first, his caretaker Beth had crept into his dreams with dull chores and the occasional, tragic death of someone Charles didn't know. Despite his best efforts, Raven had slipped in with a quiet, catlike stealth, and Beast was always just a little late and sometimes he didn't give himself the serum; had never grown to resemble his name.

Of late, however, it had become harder and harder to identify what had come from whom and that was a part of Charles' old life that he'd almost forgotten: during the day he kept a tight reign on his powers, but at night, his dreams were often not his own. He found now that he had not especially missed that aspect of telepathy; was glad that the telepathy-insulated walls at least shielded his unconscious mind from receiving any live shows.

Eventually, his heart slowed and his breathing steadied; Charles dropped his hand back down to the covers and curled over onto his side, taking comfort in the soft pain of his returning legs and the primal satisfaction of being warm on a cold night.

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**lx.**

This dream was different; he wasn't himself this time either, and he was still alone, but now he prowled confidently through the starkly bare halls of the mansion, boots ringing on the granite floor and cape billowing behind him.

He dreamt he was Erik.

He knew it was a dream, but he understood this with a certainty that did not extend to the realization that he might change anything he like or be anyone he chose. Instead, he accepted his role as Erik as a matter of fact and decided that he would go to the labs and see what was going on there.

The hallway looked the same—sterile, tiled, blankly monochromatic—but the lab he entered appeared just like it had in Westchester, cluttered and haphazard and Charles—another, actual Charles—looked up at his arrival, interrupted from staring into a dissecting scope.

Charles saw himself then from two points of view: in one, he loomed tall and imposing and, despite the fact that the Erik in his dream did not wear a helmet, unreadable. In the other he saw himself as he'd looked before Cuba, standing hesitantly in his cardigan and slacks and seeming very young and (he felt obligated to think, in his role as Erik) naïve and somewhat unsure how to react to this Erik from his future. Perhaps, he mused, he had gone back in time.

_Erik_, dream-Charles said, backing up until he bumped into the steel table. As Erik, he imagined that he could feel the shift of the metal. _What are you doing here at this time of night_?

Charles realized that it must be about the same time in the dream that it was in his bed. In Erik's body, he stalked forward, crowding his dream self against the table. _What do you think_? he asked, and dream-Charles shuddered as Erik's mouth brushed over his pulse.

_It's a bit narcissistic, if we're both me_, dream-Charles pointed out, and gasped as Erik pulled his wrists, tugging them behind Charles and leaning him back over the table.

_Then get out of my head_, Erik suggested, and Charles did, more or less. Their thighs and hips were flush but in the dream he felt incapable of embarrassment; in fact, he felt pretty all right with the bulge of Erik's cock pressed tight against his. This seemed to indicate that sex must be imminent, and all he could think was _finally_. It had been so long.

Perhaps he was still looking through Erik's eyes a little bit or maybe it was his telepathy because he could feel the man's triumphant pleasure at having Charles pinned beneath him, helpless, and Charles closed his eyes and concentrated on the specifics, drawing them into something like reality: the cold steel of the table beneath his buttocks in contrast to the heat of Erik above; the jab of plastic test tubes into his back; Erik's breath over his cheek.

Then Erik was kissing him and Charles did not understand the details, only that he was drowning; Erik was all around him, hands and mouth and legs long against his, carrying him on like the swift and inescapable rapids of a river. At some point, Charles knew, the test tubes and Petri dishes were swept clattering from the table with a careless arm and the casual destruction of all those samples only made Charles shiver and tangle his hands more firmly in Erik's hair as the other mutant shoved him down onto the stainless steel.

Erik's hand pulled at Charles' belt and the geneticist buried his face in Erik's neck. _Finally; finally._ He was warm, in spite of the cold outside. _This is actually going to happen_, Charles thought, or maybe he said it or projected it because Erik was growling _Yes, you won't stop me this time, Charles_, and there was a confusing moment regarding his pants—some acts of violence against trousers were probably committed—and then they were off, and fortuitously enough he seemed to have picked that day to not wear underwear.

There was no foreplay in the dream, and certainly not to the extent that the Erik of real life seemed to deem necessary; Charles had never been with another man—well, not _seriously_ at least, and one fumbling blow job that hadn't reached any sort of satisfying conclusion didn't count—but he'd had a fair number of adventurous female partners and was, himself, quite willing to experiment. By Charles' logic, because Erik's dick was both longer and wider than a woman's fingers, there was no way he could lose.

Charles concentrated on that, felt himself starting to drift away again back into the blank abyss of sleep with Erik right there and ready between his knees, and the scene snapped back into focus with startling clarity: Erik's eyes, somehow both immeasurably bright and inscrutably dark, stared into his own as Erik drew breath with his mouth casually open, the bottom row of his teeth visible in a way that Charles had never observed on any other person. It was an expression right out of Charles' memory, although he could not focus for long enough to say from when.

If it hadn't been a dream, Charles might have said something then, some word of encouragement perhaps, but as much as he appreciated the Erik in his head at the moment Charles didn't care to speak and so he helped by simply pulling Erik forward by the elegant jut of his hips, ignoring the cynical voice that said _that's not how sex actually works; even if that worked it would hurt extraordinarily_ because clearly it _did_ work and it _didn't_ hurt; it was _fine_.

It was more than fine, it was _wonderful_ and all Charles could feel was the perfect jangling slide of Erik inside of him, all the more sweet for its frantic insubstantiality, and this was a magnificently _fantastic_ way to end more than four years of celibacy, thank you very much. It was startlingly intense, it was searing, it was…

It was fading; Erik was still thrusting into him, it was still very pleasant and nice but in a fuzzy sort of contented way, and Charles could feel himself sinking away, down from the hard steel and into soft blankets. He held onto Erik, fiercely possessive and maybe a little bit desperate but the other man shrugged off his arms, stood wordlessly and pulled back and Charles was saying _No, you can't just_ leave_, not like that, we're not done here—_

—And then Charles was staring at something pale and textured and strewn with the orange light of sodium and after a moment of confusion he realized he was looking up at the cracked plaster of the ceiling again, that the urgent jump of his pulse between his legs was real and not part of the dream.

He swept the covers aside, ignoring the frozen shock of the outside air against his bare chest, and pulled the waistband of his boxers down in front, freeing his stiff penis to wave undeterred by the cold. Charles flexed the muscles of his abdomen and it bobbed obediently, even encouragingly; he cupped his hand around it, blood-sodden skin hot against his palm, hesitantly—then Charles bit his lip and tucked his cock back beneath his boxers and dropped his hands to his sides.

Charles could give lectures on the importance of having a healthy attitude toward sex—_had_, in fact, as Sean could have blushingly attested to; there was no room for Catholic guilt in Charles' head, even if it came second-hand. Still, this… This was different. If he finished himself off now, Charles knew, it would be to thoughts of Erik and as ridiculous as it might be that Charles had brought himself to orgasm more often as a paraplegic than after being cured, well… There were some lines probably best not crossed.

So Charles lay motionless on his back, hoping the wintry chill would calm his body before his toes froze off, cursing Erik's name with each throb of his heart. He closed his eyes and drifted, quietly, aching.

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**lxi.**

Charles felt much more pragmatic about it in the morning. Perhaps it was the snow, falling in soft little clumps of flakes and adhering together on the windowsill outside; it was still no more than a dusting over the clipped grass below, but it was very pretty and although Charles had grown up wading through knee-high drifts he clung stubbornly to the English perception of snow as something delicate and magical. It was also only the start of October, so the event was a warning, as well: _abandon hope all ye who enter here_.

Either way.

Either way, Charles was certain that dreaming about having sex with Erik was simply a natural reaction to stressful circumstances and did not require much introspection or guilt. In fact, many of the details had already mostly faded away and it was no great task to put it out of his mind entirely, to focus on getting showered and dressed ready for the day.

Sooner than Charles could have hoped, Beast was able to draft his request for an inventory report from medical storage, ostensibly to find an anesthetic to be used on mutants whose abilities rendered them largely immune to more mundane drugs like ketamine.

"Of course, to maintain appearances, we will have to start real research into the subject," Beast commented, "but it has the benefit of being a real issue."

Charles had nodded, although there was still a very important problem. "Ketamine has to be injected intravenously," he pointed out, "and it seems likely that most other sedatives would as well, in order to maintain any amount of potency. Anything that could be absorbed through the skin would be too dangerous for us to handle without substantial precautions."

Beast stood quietly, thinking, before suggesting, "Have you ever considered simply keeping a poisonous snake inside your couch?"

"No," Charles replied, flatly. Then, more brightly, "That's an idea, though—could you make a needle out of bone?"

The other scientist rubbed his fingers deep into his mane. "Well, it would still be very noticeable, but… Certainly less obvious than a steel needle, I suppose. We might be able to. Better yet, we could break the tip off a Pasteur pipette and fit it to a syringe. The supplies would certainly be easier to come by."

Charles winced a little, imagining first how it might feel if the tip of the needle broke off beneath someone's—Erik's—skin, and then winced again as he imagined what would happen if it snapped _before_, but he nodded. "That's a definite possibility."

Then he returned to the cloning lab to check his culture plates from the day prior for colonies; there were tiny little dots scattered over the gels, all places where single bacterial cells had landed and begun to grow copies of themselves. Charles took the lid off of one plate so that he could peer at them unobstructed, and kept his breathing soft and directed elsewhere so as not to contaminate the dish; the little colonies were still too small to really tell their color, but he thought some of them might be coming in white—a signal that implied that they had integrated their new genes.

Charles smiled and set the stack of plates back into the incubator to grow.

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	16. Chapter 16

So this is kind of an important A/N this time: class started again today! I have what is looking to be a very heavy workload—I'm trying to not be here for _seven_ years if it can be avoided—and so I'll probably be going noticeably slower on this from now on, although I will write when I can.

Still! Never fear! I am here, I am working on this, and I am still very eager to show you the end.

Now have some (kind of) porn, and for those of you who also just started school again, good luck and have fun!

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**lxii.**

"We've so far discovered and suppressed two assassin squads since Friday's broadcast," Infrared reported, "and those were just the ones who were stupid enough to break radio silence. The survivors are with Ms. Frost now; so far it seems each group was operating independently of each other, but there are signs that their memories had been altered prior to reaching us. Ground and air patrols are watching for others; we need to decide whether we'll be sending them farther into the field to catch potential strike teams before they get near, or whether we draw them in closer and keep a tighter net."

Erik shook his head, no more than a twitch against the thoughtful fingers he leaned against his face. In the air above his other hand, a trio of perfect steel spheres orbited lazily; Charles guessed that the metal had not always been that shape. "Splinter's men are there already," he commented. "Keep your forces out; we don't want any of the resistance coming close and signaling back the exact coordinates of our base." This last was said with more amusement than caution, as if such a situation would be more embarrassing than devastating.

Infrared nodded and shot a somewhat alarmed glance toward the silent captain of state security; Charles didn't need to be a telepath to understand that she hadn't even known that the other mutant's people were out among the trees with her own. He couldn't help but reflect that it was a sound strategy; Splinter's organization, which consisted mostly of mutants who had been guaranteed through telepathic screening to be entirely loyal, served the dual purpose of defending both against the resistance and discontent members of their own movement.

As if to prove that point, Zeus crossed his arms and huffed loudly. "So much for peace," he observed. "It's not too late to take my advice and crush these sons of bitches so's they never again so much as say an unkind word against us. Forget all that crap about 'genetic wandering' or whatever; we can beat that too."

Charles raised a perfectly disbelieving eyebrow. "You can't simply _fight_ genetic drift," he told the man, placing a slight emphasis on "drift," "The only way you can fix something like that is by diversifying the gene pool, and the only way you can do _that_ is by having a population that isn't killing itself."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah—genetics and sex and babies and all that," Zeus parroted, waving his hand dismissively. "Whatever. There's a real world outside of your test tubes, you know, and in that world we're wondering what your _next_ brilliant idea for world peace will be."

Charles frowned, then forced an indulgent smile and explained, "My next idea is easy: _patience_, while we give the old idea time to work."

The electric mutant rolled his eyes. "Oh, easy—sure, easy for _you_ to say, sitting all tidy and comfortable on your ass all day, but some of us have to do _work_ you know—"

"Zeus," Erik warned, reinforcing the name with a meaningful glance. Then he shifted his attention back to the telepath. "Charles? _Do_ you have anything further to add?"

As Zeus burrowed grimly back into his coat, Charles looked around at Erik, feeling guilty almost by proximity. His eyes touched the Brotherhood leader's and then slid away to avoid the strange twist of his stomach; _anxiety_, he told himself. "Not at this point," Charles admitted.

Erik nodded thoughtfully, as if Charles had just told him something important, then turned back to the table. "Have we got enough information to determine how long repairs to the coastal cities will take?"

They spoke about that for a while, and the consensus seemed better this time around—the damage from the waves was still extraordinary and the Brotherhood couldn't quite use its resources for _whatever_ it chose, but through some brutally efficient consolidation and planning it seemed that they would be able to strategically rebuild some cities while scavenging building materials from the others—New York City sadly numbering amongst the latter, although that had been something of a foregone conclusion given that it had already been essentially condemned _before_ the Atlantic rose up around it.

"The residual radiation would, however, be hazardous to any humans living in your new metropolis," Skink summarized, after the others had spoken their piece.

"It doesn't matter; Legacy will be built using new material," Erik explained, and those Brotherhood members who had not been paying attention before perked up at that.

"Oh, great," Zeus muttered. "At least when it gets destroyed by the cavemen it'll match everything else."

"Your single-minded mulishness is losing its entertainment value," Erik remarked, his deceptively mild tone possibly the reason why the other mutant failed to take the hint and instead scoffed and thumped his large fist onto the table, upsetting his neighbor's pen.

"Well who do you think's going to have to clean up after this mess when it all blows up in our faces? Whose men do you think will be in the line of fire? Did you ask _them_ if they wanted to patrol some dumb city full of humans and traitors?"

"Your militia won't be in charge of policing Legacy," Erik informed him, his steel spheres slowing their rotation slightly as he focused on his subordinate.

"What?" Zeus' hand flattened against the table as he pushed forward in his chair. "But that's the militia's _job_! Who else would you have do it—that mute asshole's secret police? Yeah, the resistance'll sure love _that_."

Splinter's eyes glittered back out at him from beneath the brim of his hat, but he otherwise did not react. Erik, on the other hand, let the spheres drop back into his palm and closed his gloved hand around them as he straightened up. "State security won't be handling it either. All peace officers will be paid volunteers from the city."

"Oh, sure, just sign up anyone who walks in and wants a badge—are you going to tell me next that _humans_ can be officers as well?" As Zeus spoke, none of the other mutants nodded or smiled, but instead kept their faces carefully neutral as they watched with interest; a few, such as Infrared, seemed to be almost entertained. Charles understood that they were allowing Zeus to test Erik's boundaries.

Erik paused, very briefly, his eyes flickering for the barest of moments over to Charles; then something in the set of his jaw changed, becoming hard and stubborn. "If they wish to take the risk, yes."

Zeus swore incoherently under his breath, then, louder, spat, "Bullshit! Are you even listening to yourself? Are you _insane_? Or, no, do you take that helmet off around your pet cripple and let him dig around in your head when nobody's looking?"

The Brotherhood leader narrowed his eyes, the metal starting to lose its shape and run together in his grip. "This isn't up for discussion, Zeus," he hissed.

The room was so still that the sound of denim on metal was perfectly audible as Zeus slid out of his chair and rose to his feet. Electricity simmered around him, every gleaming buckle and button a symbol of confidence as he faced Erik with unmistakable intent.

Erik, for his part, did not stand, but lounged back into his chair, setting the now unrecognizable lump of metal down in front of him and folding his hands together. Charles didn't dare move lest he too became a subject of their animosity, but he leaned away as subtly as he could; not, honestly, that it would make much of a difference to any lightening traveling his way.

"Oh, I'd say it's up for discussion, all right," Zeus corrected, as jittering snakes of light wound between his fingers. "I say you're not in charge of the organization because we all love you so much; you're here because you promised you could get the job done, that you'd get us our rightful place in this world. We didn't figure you on throwing our kind back under humanities' beat-stick."

"Humanity is over," Erik stated. "I'm not allowing them to do anything except for cling to the illusion that they still matter."

"Yeah, and you know what people who think they still matter do? They strike back at anyone who ever treated 'em like they don't."

"Like you are, you mean?" Erik commented, his tone intentionally bland.

Zeus screwed his face up into a snarl and struck out with his hand; light seared through Charles' head and he closed his eyes too late as the room shattered with sound. Ears ringing, Charles glanced around just as the improvised lightening rod that had once been three steel spheres tore itself from the table and speared out toward where Zeus hung pinned to the wall by the metal in his jacket.

Then it stopped, its cruel gleaming point mere centimeters from popping open Zeus' generous gut, and Charles froze.

His fingers were like a brand around Erik's wrist, shocking even to himself; there wasn't a person in the room who was not staring at him, their expressions a homogenous mix of fear and indignation and surprise, and Charles felt more than a little of that himself as he peered down the length of his arm at his traitorous hand.

Erik, too, stared over at him, scrutinizing, one corner of his mouth twisted around in a _what the hell are you doing_ sneer as he nonetheless held perfectly, rigidly still in Charles' grip.

Charles waited; for what, he didn't know, but as more and more time passed without anyone speaking or moving or flattening him into the ground, he felt color begin to touch his cheeks and he pried his fingers off from Erik's wrist, settling his hand back into his lap. He did this as if he had not just lunged over to stop the Brotherhood leader from skewering another man; something that Erik did not, technically, need the use of his hands to do. Something that—Charles began to realize—Erik had probably only meant to threaten, not to actually follow through with.

Charles shifted around so that he could more comfortably stare into the middle distance. Erik, he knew, was still studying him, but he pretended not to notice and eventually the other mutant eased back into his chair. Across the room, Zeus' jacket let him go and the spear coiled back in on itself; by the time it reached Erik's hand, the metal had split once more into three flawless spheres, snapping into orbit one after the other around Erik's beckoning fingertips.

There was a black scar on the table in front of Erik and the air was full of the harsh sweet smell of charred wood, but nobody gave any sign of noticing, although Charles knew they did. As Zeus dropped back into his seat, Erik looked down at Skink and said, "Tell me, which iron ore mines are still operational?"

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**lxiii.**

Charles followed just a little behind Erik as they traveled back to his rooms; with the exception of the stairs, he was allowed control of his own path, and for that Charles was grateful. It gave him something to do with his hands, something to focus on beyond the roiling anxiety in his gut.

He had stopped Erik in front of his followers. He had reached out and simply _seized_ Erik as if he were some unruly schoolyard bully instead of the ruler of an entire empire of militant mutants, and there hadn't been any repercussions.

…_Yet_. Charles could feel it between them now, in the stiff set of Erik's shoulders and swiftness of his step. He'd been able to feel it in the conference room, too: Erik's awareness of him, Erik's watching, his _consideration_. Charles could sense the moment of confrontation drawing near—it would happen the moment they were out of public, he was sure.

The necklace lay heavy over his shirt.

Finally they reached his door, and Erik opened it without touching the knob, standing aside so that Charles could go through first. The telepath was loath to turn his back on the other man, but he went in regardless, holding his chin up with a confidence he didn't entirely feel and upon reaching the sitting room he swiveled to face Erik.

Erik stood just inside the closed door, studying him as if he'd never really seen Charles before, his eyes dark and strangely impersonal; objective. Charles examined him in turn, because he had nothing else to do; he took note of the slightly stooped shoulders, the curl of Erik's cape around his ankle, the nearly raptorial incline of his head. Erik's gait, when he stalked forward, was careful and noiseless like that of a fearsome cat.

Charles tilted his head back as Erik approached, but the other mutant didn't come so near and instead circled around him, still wordlessly scrutinizing. Feeling uneasy, and as if he may almost rather share company with the jungle cat, Charles moved to turn one wheel of his chair, to follow Erik, but his wristwatch caught against his arm before he could reach it.

Charles set his hands back along the armrest and waited, staring at the door as he listened for the scuff of Erik's boots on the wooden floor.

A soft breeze of exhaled air teased the hair at the top of his head; a moment later, as if disturbed from its rest, the gold chain around Charles' neck shook itself awake and crawled up his throat, a cold snake-scale caress—delicate and, Charles knew, immovable, should he choose to struggle.

It drew tight against his skin in the notch beneath his jaw, not so much that he choked but it made an unpleasant presence nonetheless. From deep inside Charles' mind rose a primitive terror, an animal's desire to lash out against the snare, but he drove it back down mercilessly and kept his hands at his sides.

The chain forced Charles to raise his chin as it pulled up; what, he wondered, was Erik doing?

Erik's voice, when he spoke, was soft, and far above; he hadn't yet crouched down to the geneticist's level. "Are you afraid of me, Charles?"

It seemed a strange thing to ask someone he was threatening to asphyxiate. Charles considered: what did Erik want him to say? "No," he replied.

The telepath's skin pinched between the links of the chain. "Charles," Erik warned.

Charles didn't spare the time to consider what he might have said had he in fact been telling the truth. "Sometimes," he admitted.

"Now?" Erik's voice growled into his ear. Charles' neck prickled.

_What did he want to hear_? Charles wavered, distracted by the feel of the gold links slithering restlessly over his throat. He didn't know whether Erik did it on purpose, or if perhaps the metal achieved a sort of borrowed life under his will as an unconscious extension of himself. Certainly, he reflected, Erik had much better control than when they'd first met.

Charles wondered if Erik could feel the race of his heart through the necklace.

Erik whispered Charles' name, his lips now brushing the curve of the telepath's ear, and Charles shivered. "Yes."

Erik withdrew, and Charles heard the turn of his boot on the floor behind him as the other man paced away, but the metal remained tight against Charles' neck, in fact tugged his head up further so that Charles had to push himself up out of the chair a little just to be comfortable.

"Are you afraid I'll kill you?" Erik's tone was harsh; bitter with anger although not, Charles thought, directed toward him.

It did seem like a legitimate worry given that Erik's mental grip was not, after all, so far removed from strangling, but Charles wasn't lying when he responded, "No. That's not the reason."

The collar slackened, sank, pooled over his shoulders. Charles felt the warmth of Erik before his gloved fingertips settled all in a line down either side of his neck, his thumbs together tracing down the line of Charles' vertebrae. "Then why?" Erik did not sound curious—he sounded tired, an emotion the geneticist could identify with.

Charles let his eyelids flutter closed. There was nothing he felt like seeing at the moment. "You… _Perplex_ me."

"Mm." Erik's fingers left, and there came the sound of his gloves pulling off. A few seconds later, Charles felt the empty fingers touch his wrist and, without opening his eyes, he turned his hand around and took the gloves from Erik.

Erik brushed the hair from the back of Charles neck to clear a space for his lips, soft and ticklish and… _Something else_, something that made Charles want to shudder but also to keep perfectly still beneath them. "How so?" Erik murmured, close enough that Charles felt the movement of his words in the roots of his hair.

_Because I should hate you, and I don't,_ Charles thought into the shifting red-blackness of his eyelids, his head bowing into Erik's hand as the man pressed another kiss onto the curve of his neck. Instead, he stated, "You brainwash people."

Erik's lips stilled against Charles' skin, then pulled slowly away. "That particular ability isn't among my numerous talents."

Charles opened his eyes and peered down at his hands. One of his fingers had, at some point, tucked inside a glove; he removed it quickly and was instantly colder. "Regardless. You order Ms. Frost to do it."

Erik made a soft noise of concession. "And a few other telepaths in other locations."

Charles turned his head sharply, nearly colliding with Erik's nose; the other man stared back at him, entirely unapologetic. "Erik," he began, and couldn't continue.

The skin around Erik's eyes creased with an embarrassed humor. "I have to protect myself, Charles," he explained. Charles was distantly aware of Erik's fingernails stroking down the side of his throat, but he didn't look away.

"It's terrible, Erik," he protested, loathing the quaver of his voice; the plaintiveness of it.

Erik gave a quick, silent laugh, showing a glimpse of teeth as he grinned. "I may be a terrible person," he mused. Despite his smile, there was a hint of something desperate in his stare, and Charles grabbed for the collar of Erik's cape as if he could pin it there to stay.

"Erik," Charles insisted, shaking the man sharply, "You're _not_. You don't _have_ to be." But the moment of vulnerability had vanished, had been shuttered firmly behind the steel of Erik's resolve as he reached for Charles' wrist with his free hand and pried the telepath's fingers off from his cape.

Erik's eyelashes hid his eyes as he looked down at Charles' hand, held splayed open by his grip on Charles' fingers. After a moment of consideration, he held it up to his mouth and swept his tongue, wide and flat, over Charles' palm. Then he curled Charles' fingers into a wet fist and held them trapped in the slick of his saliva.

The corner of Erik's lips twisted up as he met Charles' wide-eyed stare. "I am," he insisted. "You can't change that, Charles." He leaned forward and kissed Charles, hard and insistent until the geneticist could hardly hold his head up in the face of it; he had to cling to Erik's shoulders and even then his neck bent uncomfortably.

Charles made a small, miserable noise and Erik drew in a long slow breath through his nose and broke away, resting the side of his helmet against Charles' face in as comforting a way as he could, considering that it was only a lifeless shell. Charles was ashamed to find that he had nonetheless pressed his cheek into the hard surface as if it did, in fact, matter.

"They're not good people either," Erik muttered.

"What?" Charles asked, helplessly lost.

"The people who get brainwashed. They're not good people either."

Charles blinked. "I don't… How…"

Erik pulled back and smiled fondly, bringing up a hand to cradle Charles' head. "You really are an idealist," he marveled. "The resistance might consider you a hero, but for the most part they lack your integrity. They're just as likely to hurt innocent people as they accuse us of being."

The geneticist squinted incredulously at him. "I see," he granted, for the time being.

Erik's smile spread as he pulled Charles in once more. This time he was gentle, almost hesitant as he held Charles carefully in place, starting shallow and slow to go deep and eventually Charles paused, somewhere in the middle of Erik sucking on his tongue, to wonder how this had come to be his life.

Then Erik put his arm around Charles' torso and pulled him out of his chair and Charles remembered _oh right, this is how_, because Erik had apparently, at some point in the last four years, fallen out of the habit of asking permission. Resigned, Charles reached for Erik's neck and waited for the man to scoop up his legs, but instead Erik drew him to his feet and then held Charles tightly against himself, keeping the telepath standing through his own brute strength.

Erik's eyes shone with amusement as Charles stared dumbfounded up at him, shifting his atrophied legs beneath himself. Erik was still taller than him—would always be taller than him—but this… It was strange, to see Erik from their old height difference, as if he might have just fallen into Erik's arms after a perfectly innocent stumble, subject to the odd intimacy of relying on another's balance.

Charles was also gradually becoming aware of the way their bodies were pressed together, of the spread of Erik's hands across his back, and he began to blush, looking down into the folds of Erik's cape. "That's not the only thing," the geneticist mumbled.

"Hm?" Erik hummed against his forehead.

"You keep poor company," Charles said, trying to sound self-righteous as Erik kissed his way down the side of his face.

The other man paused against Charles' sideburns, and the geneticist felt the slow pull of his lips into a smile. "You're talking about the little altercation today."

Exhaling slowly, Charles tilted his head to the side as Erik continued on to the curve of his jaw. Behind him, Erik's hand sought out the hem of Charles' jacket before sliding up beneath along the smooth fabric of his shirt.

_Focus_, Charles commanded himself as Erik tugged at his shirts. He fidgeted with the hair at the nape of Erik's neck, mentally breaking it down into protein; molecules; atoms. "He tried to kill you. He's not a politician, he's a bully."

Erik's teeth scraped against his jaw, catching against stubble. Then he pushed forward and nuzzled below Charles' ear with his nose. "I'm stuck with the people I have," he told Charles, resting his lips where his nose had been and daubing his tongue over the spot. Then, almost experimentally, he set his mouth down and sucked.

"_Hn_," Charles grunted, his eyes losing focus. Meanwhile, Erik had succeeded in pulling up his shirts and skated his hand up beneath, brushing past Charles' scar and up to hold his ribs. "The—the people you fill your government with will determine the… Um. The tone of your _new world_."

Burying his face into the collar of the geneticist's jacket, Erik inhaled deeply, relishing Charles' smell. His hands stilled and he met Charles' stare. "Do you think I _chose_ someone like Zeus?" Erik asked, with an edge of disbelieving humor. "I had to use whoever presented themselves, Charles."

Pressed up against Erik as he was, it was somewhat awkward for Charles to lean his head back to look at him. They were close enough to almost share breath, and Erik filled all of his vision. "Well, I'm sure you have a much greater pool of talent _now_."

Erik sighed, and Charles felt it along his own chest, on his face. "It's not as simple as that. These people—my officers—they have an infrastructure of their own. Zeus, for example—I didn't organize the militia; it came to me almost fully formed and with that man at the head of it. If I get rid of him, noxious though he may be, I would lose the support of our most wide-spread military force." He smiled, suddenly, and added, "Anyway, he does that sort of thing at least once every few months. It helps keep everyone else in line."

Charles frowned at him. "That—this is _bad_, Erik, don't you see?"

Erik huffed a laugh, puffing air over Charles' face, and leaned forward to touch their noses together. His lips brushed Charles' but did not quite meet them. "I see, Charles," he murmured. "I see." Then he began to walk them backward toward the couch, twisting his head around to check where they were going before resting his mouth against Charles' hair.

Still clinging to Erik's neck, still in his arms, Charles tried to keep pace; to shuffle forward in tangent with Erik walking back, and for the most part he managed to keep from tripping. It occurred to him that they must almost look as if they were dancing, and that thought combined with his acute awareness of the way Erik's legs and hips were moving against his brought laughter struggling out from Charles' throat, and he crushed his face into Erik's jacket to smother any sounds that made it out. _I'm going insane,_ he marveled. _I'm actually going insane._

Finally, Erik patted Charles' arm to signal him to hold tightly to his neck, then stooped down; Charles made a noise of startled indignation as Erik's hands dove between his legs, wrapped around, and pulled him from his feet. Then they were tipping, falling, or—no, Erik was sitting, and then Charles was in his lap, legs spread over Erik's thighs.

Charles shifted uneasily, both to put some distance between them and because the telepath was unused to being at the same level as Erik; he wondered if, since he was already on top of the man, he should take advantage of the situation, try to grab for the helmet—but no, Erik was still a soldier, still physically stronger than him, and the control was an illusion.

Erik took his hands from Charles legs and slid them up to his sides—if along the way his fingers dipped beneath the curve of Charles' buttocks, well, it was really too briefly to protest—and held the geneticist still while he looked him over. There was something entirely too honest in his expression, too nuanced beyond simple appraisal, so Charles let his own gaze drop to Erik's arms.

The other mutant went to work on the buttons of Charles' shirt and in no time at all it was open and Erik was stripping the layers off of him until Charles sat bemused and chilled and bare-chested, head hanging to look down at his own scrawny chest, silent.

"Charles," Erik chided, assured; he cupped his hand over the telepath's cheek and urged Charles' head up again. His eyes were dark with want but also soft with concern, and perhaps because there was nothing comforting he could say that would not also be a lie, he muttered, "It's all right, Charles," almost too quiet to even hear.

Then he drew Charles to him and kissed him, starting over; slow and sweet and coaxing until Charles opened his mouth to him and Erik moved his hands, smoothing his thumbs through the hollows of Charles' shoulders and down to count his ribs—then back up, beneath Charles' arms, over his scapulae and tangling in his hair.

Tugging at the geneticist's hair, Erik pulled Charles' head back and exposed his neck; in an instant, Erik was there with his mouth to devour the subtle lines of muscle and cartilage, wrapping lips and teeth over Charles' throat, but it wasn't until he moved lower—below where Charles' clothing would cover—that he turned rough, biting and sucking and leaving marks. Charles winced at each one but it didn't—it didn't _entirely_ hurt, and as Erik released his hair and Charles was able to look, to see Erik touch a long finger to a fledgling bruise on his clavicle with an almost single-minded reverence, Charles' breath caught and his heart twinged because there was something fragile about it, although whether it was his own fragility or Erik's he couldn't say.

Leaning forward, Erik licked the chain into his mouth and carried it between his teeth as he returned to kiss Charles again; one of his hands stroked into Charles' scar and as the telepath gasped and arched into him Erik pushed the necklace through Charles' lips, didn't give him the chance to spit it out again as Erik followed with his tongue, working around the hard grit of the gold links, tangling them together.

Erik's short fingernails scratched down Charles' back, too light to tear skin but enough that Charles pressed himself into Erik, subjected himself to the duel scrape of Erik's jacket and buttons against his bare chest as the searing paths of Erik's nails veered around his scar before circling to meet just above his belt, ending with a sharp twist to remind Charles that he had agreed to go no further, that Charles couldn't expect anything more.

Charles tore his mouth from Erik's, threw his head back to gasp for air as the other man moved his hands to stroke down the geneticist's waist, fingers ticklish and thumbs reaching around to smooth Charles' stomach. The chain pooled beneath Charles' tongue, hanging down from the corners of his lips, but he had forgotten how to spit it out. He felt like he was forgetting a _lot_ of things, including the trick to maintaining solid form; he was melting, he was sure of it, and the burning snag of Erik's buttons sliding up his chest as Charles sank confirmed it, and that was all right because if he'd turned into a liquid then there was really no way anyone could reasonably expect him to hold a coherent thought in his head.

Then his cock touched Erik's and everything became perfectly, crystalline clear.

Charles stopped, leaned away from Erik to stare stupidly down to where his hips straddled Erik's, verifying that yes, those bulges were penises, and yes, they were definitely in contact with each other.

He was vaguely aware of Erik watching him as Charles, somewhat belatedly, pushed the necklace out of his mouth and let it fall wetly to his chest. He flexed his thighs, attempting to push himself up or away or anywhere else, but they shook and failed him and all Charles accomplished was to drag himself more thoroughly along Erik's length. Slow, roiling pleasure spread out to the lines of his pelvis, to his navel, though his bones to buzz in the tips of his fingers and toes.

"Um," Charles managed to say, eventually. He looked back up to Erik, who wore the twist of a smirk over his lips. "This isn't…"

"…Part of the bargain?" Erik offered. His hands held Charles' shoulders.

Charles nodded vaguely to himself, gaze falling back down to their laps. "No. It's not."

Erik showed teeth, and he traced a deliberate finger up the geneticist's sternum to flick against his chin, re-capturing Charles' attention. "Well, Charles? Is there anything you'd like to bargain for?"

Charles blinked at him, and after a moment he realized he was actually trying to think of something to trade. He shook his head sharply, to clear it. "I…" he began, unsuccessfully. This was altogether unexpected; he had forgotten, almost, how _intense_ desire could be, and he was almost more distraught that he was able to think those words than of the fact itself.

The fingers on his chin left as Erik lowered his hand, tendons and bone shifting elegantly beneath his skin, and Charles was certain that at any moment Erik would stop—dreaded that Erik would stop—but then no, Erik was definitely going to touch him, _was going to touch him_, and somehow it was _still_ a surprise when Erik's hand slipped between them and cupped Charles' dick through his trousers.

Charles went perfectly still; didn't even breathe. He burned; no, he felt like he was _waiting_ to burn, to catch fire, to be enkindled—a spark of potential energy waiting for a direction. It was terrifying, exhilarating—_wrong_, because this was Erik, and it didn't bother Charles so much that he was a man than that Erik had done horrible things: to him, to humanity, to the world. This was Erik and he wasn't Charles' friend anymore and he wasn't even moving his hand, just cradling Charles' cock half-hard and heavy in his palm and yet Charles wanted _more_.

Then Erik squeezed, gently, and drew his hand slowly up. Charles' mouth fell open as he sucked in air; his eyes fell closed and he swayed forward until the prongs of Erik's helmet dug into his forehead. This was a bad time to be having this crises; Charles suddenly regretted his choice not to conclude his dream two nights before, to take the moral high ground and avoid fantasizing about Erik.

He should have gotten it over with then because alone and in his bed was a much safer place to suddenly realize that he was maybe a little attracted to Erik; safer, certainly, than understanding that while his former friend's hand was stroking his dick. The scent of Erik filled his nose, primal and male and undeniably sexual; he was warm beneath Charles' hands, beneath his thighs, between his legs. Charles felt unprepared for this, and he seemed to feel something flutter and die deep within his chest; some unnamed thing that he couldn't identify but felt sure he would miss, later on.

"You're poaching," Charles managed to say, after swallowing thickly. Erik's chest jumped with laughter under his hands.

"Then stop me," Erik murmured, punctuating his words with a firm tug down Charles' length; the geneticist grimaced and pressed his head into the sharp points of Erik's helmet, hoping the pain would help clear his mind.

"Could I?" Charles whispered.

"Of course," Erik answered, low and languorous. Charles pulled back and looked at him: beneath his eyelids, Erik's pupils were wide and black; his eyebrows were furrowed intently and he was breathing through his mouth. As he stared at the soft, open curve of Erik's lips, Charles felt dizzy at the knowledge that he could make Erik fuck him, if he asked.

Priorities. He had priorities.

"You might take everything away from me," Charles replied, and it wasn't until he heard it in his voice that Charles realized he was afraid.

Erik's mouth closed into a sad line and his other hand—the one that wasn't still toying around between them—came up to rest indiscriminately against Charles' neck, jaw, and cheek. "No," he corrected. "No, I won't take anything away from you, Charles. You've paid for everything that you have."

Charles leaned onto Erik's helmet again, lower this time, and their noses touched; Erik tilted his head back very slightly, inviting a kiss, and Charles wanted to, he wanted to, but—

"Stop," Charles said, and the word was clear and precise. "I don't—I don't want this."

The telepath pulled away in time to see the flicker of amusement in Erik's eyes, because he could feel well enough for himself that Charles' statement was blatantly untrue, but he removed his hand and Charles gritted his teeth against that final sweep of pleasure. Then he shoved himself off of Erik and dropped onto the couch next to him, drawing a pained grunt from the other man in the process.

Erik shifted obliging over until they were no longer touching, and Charles couldn't help but notice the bulge straining against his pants. Erik didn't attempt to hide it, however, and so neither did Charles, although he would have liked to adjust himself if it wouldn't have made his discomfort that much more obvious.

Charles avoided Erik's eyes and made plans to masturbate more often, as he clearly needed to.

He hoped it would help. Erik's calmly brooding patience, however, suggested that it would not.

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	17. Chapter 17

Sorry this took so long, everyone! D: I am still here, still writing, it is just sooooo busy here. I am hoping that I can start going a little faster now that I'm a little more into the swing of things, but we'll have to see. Chapters may have to get shorter to keep more regular updates.

Thanks for reading, and to my fabulous beta, LJ's idioticonion!

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**lxix.**

There had been a fresh snow that night; here and there, the green tips of the courtyard grass poked through with resigned determination. All of this lay in the soft blue shadow of early morning.

"The meteorologists think it should get warmer again soon, for a little while," Raven assured Charles. Once again, she wore her human shape. "Then again, they've been trying out a lot of hypotheses lately, so who knows."

Charles breathed in the crisp wintry air and exhaled a tattered plume of steam. "I'm _outside_," he stated, obviously. "I don't care that I have to wear a coat." Indeed, he was quite happy bundled up in his black wool. The sky above was only a wide rectangle of gray, framed on all sides by the red-tiled roof of the mansion, but now and then there came a small fitful breeze through his hair, and the flat earthy scent of limestone made a welcome change from dust and wood polish.

Inhaling again, as if to store some of that smell for later, Charles mused, "I wonder what this little excursion is in return for."

Raven looked over at him in confusion, and Charles remembered suddenly that the details of his life were not common knowledge. "Charles," she said, sounding hurt, "You may not be here by choice, but you're not our _prisoner_. Magneto just thought it'd be nice for you to get outside for a little while."

Charles ducked his gaze down and chuckled ruefully. "Of course—I'm sorry. It is nice; I feel like I can stretch, finally." Then he closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and did just that: sending his thoughts out over the mountains. Erik's people—and any of the anti-extinctionist squads who may have been out there—were well hidden, but it still felt good to confirm that the world did in fact exist outside of his windows. The minds of birds and beasts were stolid and uninteresting, but they were _there_.

Feeling Raven's amusement was like catching a glimpse of her smirk out of the corner of his vision; he didn't turn his telepathy to look, but he felt an answering smile bloom on his own face. "Yes, I know I look ridiculous," Charles remarked, lifting his head and opening his eyes. "I don't care. Anyway, I notice that you seem to no longer be using 'theory' and 'hypothesis' interchangeably. You may consider me to be impressed."

Raven's pale skin was still creased with mockery as she responded, "Why, thank you for that backhanded compliment. I guess I just got tired of you scientists whining about it all the time."

The geneticist frowned to communicate that the difference was _definitely_ a big one and certainly worth keeping straight. Then he began to move down the sidewalk, which had already been trampled into a thin ice that would later, Charles knew, melt in the heat of the sun. For now, however, it was slick beneath the wheels of the chair and Charles had to stifle the urge to go skating over it; it certainly wouldn't look dignified to any of the people who may be watching from the windows, and he'd never really had the chance to master the art well enough to avoid tipping.

"What do you and Magneto _do_ together, anyway?" Raven asked, keeping pace. Charles looked over at her, startled, mouth half-open with his first impulsive answer: _why, snog, of course._ He sealed his lips together before he could say it and tucked his chin down, studying Raven quickly from the corner of his eye in case she'd noticed his stumble.

His sister's blonde hair made a meandering frame to her face and splayed out over the black of her coat, twining into the white ruffles of her blouse, and he wondered whether her clothing was real or an extension of her body. Charles remembered playing in the woods with her when they were younger: with only their deep footprints to lead them back to the manor, they'd tunneled and built and Raven had never needed a coat to stay warm.

Sometimes, she'd run out through the bristling gray trees and turn herself a perfect sparkling white; after a while Charles would lose track of her entirely and it would be as if he were all alone, not just in the woods, or because of his mutation, but in the entire world—just Charles and the endless woods sharing the echoing silence of the space between breaths, until yellow eyes flickered open beside him and Raven would shove a handful of snow under his shirt.

"Talk, mostly," Charles replied, glancing away at the shining windows lining the mansion walls.

"Solving the worlds problems?" Raven guessed fondly, and Charles turned back to her and chuckled ruefully.

"Oh, no, I'm afraid not," he admitted. "No, mostly we just… Talk. Sometimes about books. People. Gossip, I suppose."

Raven raised one of her perfect brown eyebrows, now that she had them at her disposal. "'Gossip?' Magneto? Really? _You_ hardly know anyone, so that means…"

Charles' laughter was genuine this time. "I can guess what you're imagining and no, Erik doesn't sit down with a cup of tea, cross his legs, and start telling me all the rumors." He paused, then added, "_I'm_ the one who does that."

Wrinkling her nose up, Raven grinned and smacked the geneticist's shoulder. "You do _not_," she protested. "You're just full of it today, aren't you?"

Struggling to keep his expression serious, Charles conceded, "Maybe. Say, how is your beautiful young inamorata?"

"Destiny? Oh, she's all right. She's…" Raven hesitated, glancing down at her feet, then shrugged and brushed the hair from her face. "Well, I suppose I can probably tell you this much at least: she's precognitive, and from what I understand, her visions have never exactly been _pleasant_, but they've gotten worse in the past several years."

"Understandable," Charles agreed, nodding and pressing his lips together to keep from interrupting Raven with just how incredible he found the idea of precognition.

Raven nonetheless rolled her eyes at him. "Not because it's been _bad_—she sees the future, not the present. If I'm understanding her correctly, it's because there are so many options—so many ways it could go, still, and it's overwhelming."

Charles immediately wondered whether he had caused any of those futures—then chided himself, because that was more than a little narcissistic. Then again… He _was_ rather intimately entwined with the empire's leadership, and he _was_ more-or-less planning to overthrow said leadership. Maybe it was a good sign, if the future was still uncertain; that they still, perhaps, _had_ a future beyond war and extinction.

He didn't say any of that, however, as Raven hadn't told him about her partner's abilities just to set his mind at ease.

Raven leaned her head back and sighed; the moisture of her lungs drifted up until it was torn apart by a captive eddy. "I blame him, sometimes, for her stress; for all the headaches and late nights. If he hadn't… If he could only…" She looked over at Charles, and if she appeared older it wasn't due to her mutation. "It's probably a good thing that you don't talk about serious things with him. We did a bad thing; maybe the worst there is, and I think knowing that, but not being able to admit it—I think it's driving him insane, and maybe if he has someone he can talk to who he knows might forgive him… Maybe then he'll be able to admit it to himself and he'll be able to make some real changes."

Charles stopped; they had reached the other end of the courtyard. He stared down at the rounded limestone bricks as Raven continued, "He needs you, Charles, and when that time comes… Just remember that you're not the only person I care about, and if you hurt him… Why, I'd probably never talk to you again."

Raven smiled to show that she was joking, and after a moment of struggling, Charles managed to return the expression.

They turned around and began to go down the next side of the triangle.

"It looks like you've taken Beast's challenge seriously," Charles observed, after some time.

His sister looked down at herself, at the skirts hanging out from beneath her coat and above her fashionable shoes, to her pale shins, untouched by the cold. "Yeah," she sighed. "It's been… I suppose Beast would say that results are 'inconclusive.' Everyone knows who I am when I'm myself, so it'd be different no matter what."

"Too many variables," Charles offered, pushing at his hand-rims idly; they tended to slip a little under the soft gray fabric of his gloves. "You need a control group."

"Yes, so… I've started going around as a mutant, too—an obvious one, I mean. I decided to try out fish scales; I thought I might as well practice patterns while I'm at it." She watched her feet for a while, hands hidden in her pockets.

"And?" Charles asked. "What have you noticed?"

Raven took a deep breath and furrowed her eyebrows. "I'm… Not sure. It's more complicated than what Beast said, though; not _so_ bad, but…"

"…But it could become that way, in time," Charles concluded for her.

She nodded. "Yes; in time, maybe." Then Raven smiled and continued, "How about that, huh? Neither one of us had it right—we both wanted to see the extremes and reality was somewhere in between."

Charles huffed a laugh and ducked his head. "Of course—reality is seldom as black and white as we believe."

Raven arched her brow, marveling, "Wow, you're surprisingly accommodating today, aren't you?"

Charles hummed noncommittally, then stopped and leaned over the armrest, beckoning at the snow. "Hand me some of that, would you? I've been staring at snow for years now without being able to touch it."

"Sure," Raven said, and she walked over to the edge of the sidewalk, crouched down, and scooped up a big solid handful of sticky flakes. The grass beneath sprang up in relief as she transferred the lump of snow into Charles' outstretched hands.

The cold radiated through the knit of Charles' gloves and numbed his fingers as he peered into the blue depths of the crystalline water—_ hydrogen bonding _, his mind whispered—then leaned forward, closed his eyes, and licked into it, recalling the clear and faintly ammonia taste of freshly fallen snow.

Raven screwed up her face in disgust even as she laughed at him. "That was right against the ground! There's probably dirt in that."

Charles smiled, smug. "My immune system has been coddled for too long; a little dirt will do me good." Then his lips dipped into a smirk and before Raven could quite get her hands up, he had wound his arm back and thrown the packed snow at her.

She stood frozen for a moment, body still half-turned to avoid it even though there was no possible way Charles could have missed from that distance, her mouth gaping open in betrayed horror as she looked down at the smear of white beginning to melt into her coat. Then Raven's eyes narrowed, and she gave Charles a pointed glare before stalking purposefully toward the grass to get more snow.

Charles laughed and started to roll away backwards. "No, no, Raven, _don't_—"

His sister stood and examined the snow that she packed between her pink fingers.

"You can't retaliate," Charles insisted, glancing behind him as one of the chair's wheels slipped off the sidewalk and caught stubbornly. When he looked up again, Raven was in pursuit and closing fast, the snow held up like a prize in one hand as she reached for him. Charles ducked his head down between his shoulders and twisted away as she drew near. "Raven, how could you, to your own brother—_I'm helpless_—!"

Then Raven shoved the snow down through the back of his shirt collar and Charles stopped talking to gasp, reaching up over his shoulder as he tried to arch away from the sudden, startling cold.

Raven crossed her arms triumphantly as she watched him pull his shirts out of his pants to shake out the snow. "The best part about this is that you can't throw any back because you need someone to hand it to you first," she observed.

"I'll be able to walk soon," Charles reminded her crossly. "Just you wait. You'll regret this."

Raven made a rude noise in her throat to indicate that she was unimpressed.

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**lxx.**

Charles held a tiny loop of wire at the tip of a motionless cone of blue flame, watching as intently as if it were new to him as it flared up with sodium and then quieted. It took only a moment for the metal to begin glowing a dull red, and then, satisfied, the geneticist withdrew the wire, paused to let it lose its glow, and quenched it with a drowned sizzle on a clean patch of the X-gal plate.

With supreme care and delicacy, Charles picked the tip of the wire out of the agar and lay its curved edge precisely against the side of a white circle of bacteria; with a little twist of his index finger, he swept the colony up onto the wire, leaving only a small dull smudge on the surface of the plate.

Charles replaced the lid on the dish and, in the same movement, plucked the rubber stopper from a small glass test tube; he thrust the loop of wire down into it, stirring around the golden broth until he saw the ragged wisps of the colony whirling around inside.

Then Charles withdrew the wire, re-stoppered the tube loosely so that a little bit of air could still reach the bacteria, and sterilized the wire again before setting it down on his table. He sat back and surveyed his work; eleven tubes containing three milliliters of lysogeny broth, and at least one cell of successfully modified bacteria in each. There had been somewhat fewer colonies than he'd been hoping for, but in a couple days he'd have as many clones as he needed.

His project was barely underway, and until he could work up to having a steady supply of samples waiting for him Charles wouldn't have much real analysis to do, but he felt content that things were progressing steadily; both in the study of gene expression and in his scheming with Beast.

There had been a setback in their plan—Beast had sent an inquiry to Medical to find out why it was taking so long to get the inventory report he had asked for, only to be told both that he should be more patient and that they had nonetheless completed his request in record time; had, in fact, already sent it the day prior. After rummaging around in his office for a while, Beast had come to the reluctant conclusion that he had indeed received the information, but since he had not remembered ordering it, merely threw it away after a cursory glance.

Trash bin now embarrassingly empty, Beast had waved Charles away so that he could draft a new request from memory. Satisfied that Beast knew what he was doing—and a little chagrined that he should have known such a thing might happen—a little troubled that he hadn't _thought_ about it—Charles had retreated back into the comforting world of genetic recombination and left Beast to his writing.

The geneticist labeled the test tubes with the date and a curling _X_, set the entire rack on his lap to balance as he backed up and then went out through the open door into the rest of the lab to find the shaker. Hannah hadn't been enthusiastic about leaving the door to her tiny domain open, but instead of protesting she had simply rearranged the entire workspace so that she now sat in the most remote corner of the room, well-hidden from all but the occasional lost lab assistant who quickly learned not to repeat the offense.

The eyes of the other scientists slid away from him as they went about their business, but Charles knew that it wasn't personal; a few of them did smile at him in an absently bewildered sort of way as he passed, but they didn't greet each other with particularly more warmth than they did him. There were some light-hearted conversations around the balances and deionized water tap, but for the most part they were all there to work.

The telepath was not so naïve as to believe that his fellow scientists were immune to judgment. This was a more mixed crowd than he'd ever seen in Oxford—there were, after all, not all that many mutant scientists in the world, so they were all of different nationalities and races and there were even quite a number of women. They did not come without their prejudices, but at the very least they didn't spare the energy for it while occupied with a project. For the moment, they were united, if cautious in their truce.

They knew who Charles was of course, and that made things a little—strained—at times, but neither his fans nor his detractors much cared to bother him and they seemed to believe that if they didn't make eye contact, he wouldn't read their minds. Honestly he almost preferred anonymity to this, but at least some of the others had powers nearly as frightening as his own and that made the caution less hysterical and more pragmatic.

Charles found the shaker, which was living up to its name and endlessly sloshing around any number of uninterestingly colored liquids, most of them other cultures of bacteria. He stopped it just long enough to add his, securing the tubes at an angle with a strip of tape, and closed the lid before too much of the heat could escape.

When he returned to his table to clean up, the geneticist realized that his jar of LB medium—they all had their own, to avoid contaminating each other's work—would be empty soon. Charles looked around at the jug of stock solution, high on a shelf and surrounded by a number of trays and little bottles that had all overnight mysteriously sprouted labels warning **don't touch**. He estimated its height compared to the length of his arms and concluded that, while he could probably reach, the jar was too full to risk it.

Charles cleared his throat a little, not so much to get Hannah's attention as to judge how loudly he needed to speak to be heard over the music playing muzzily over the radio between them, broadcasted irregularly from a hand-made rig run by the theoretical physicists downstairs. Here, finally, Charles heard new music, although like all new things it was not without its failed experiments.

When he did talk, it was like shattering a glass pane of ambient noise. "Hannah, dear, could you get the LB for me?"

The woman looked over at him sharply, eyes huge in her thin face; then she blinked and relaxed. "Sure," Hannah agreed, sliding off of her stool and walking over. "This shouldn't be up here anyway. I should re-organize again, put all the stock bottles in one spot, move all of my solutions up…"

Sitting back as he watched her reach for the liter jar, eyes caught on the spot where the sleeves of her lab coat drew back off of her bird-like wrists, Charles observed, "You must never leave the lab; this room is different every time I come in here."

Hannah paused, frowning, the tips of her gloved fingers resting lightly on the wide sides of the jar. "What, are you having trouble finding anything?"

Charles glanced down and chuckled to himself. "No, I'm just glad that there's someone in this building with even less of a life than myself," he assured her. She peered at him doubtfully for a moment, as if she weren't sure why he was satisfied with second place, before turning back to the LB and lifting it back down to the counter.

They stared at it in silence for a moment.

"That's cloudy," Hannah agreed into Charles' silence. "Have you…"

"I've hardly used it," Charles protested, looking away from the contaminated broth to pull his face into a shrug.

"Hm," she commented, her gaze drifting back to where her recently-centrifuged rack of cell products sat slowly, inexorably diffusing back out of its neat bands of density.

Charles sighed. "I have nothing else to do right now; I'll go mix up a new batch."

Hannah let out the breath she had been holding and smiled wonderingly at him. "Really? Are you sure?"

As Charles gave his assent, he guessed that there was a good chance that she might even deign to let him lend a hand on her project without too much arm wrestling; perhaps he'd have something more interesting than routine maintenance to do after all. As he left with the jar full of miscellaneous bacteria, his colleague turned to cough dryly into the crook of her elbow and it was with a crease of concern between his eyebrows that Charles dumped the broth down the sink. That crease, however, was lost in his grimace at the too-rich protein smell of the liquid, tinged by the faintly bready odor of biological waste.

The telepath set the dirty glassware on a cart with its fellows before grabbing a sterile flask to fill with tryptone and other powders, which he mixed with water, covered with a cap of aluminum foil and temperature-sensitive tape, and sat precariously over his legs as he went out into the hallway and down, a little, outside the autoclave room. The doors there were closed, but were light enough and loose enough that it was a small matter of concentration to edge up sideways to one half, set the brake on the close wheel, hold onto the flask, and use his free hand to turn the other wheel, pushing the chair into the door at an angle.

It swung open and, with a little finagling, Charles was through and sharing a damp room with a number of huge sweaty machines set into the wall. Some of their gauges read with extraordinary pressures and temperatures, but there were a few whose spidery, rubber-lined hatches hung open.

Preparing the autoclave was difficult from inside the chair, but Charles managed to not become entirely soaked as he filled a deep plastic tray halfway with water. The telepath felt some measure of pride that he was strong enough to then lift the tray into the autoclave without spilling it, and perhaps he was even showing off a little when he used the hatch to pull himself to his feet and set the flask of culture medium into its water bath—although it then occurred to Charles that there was no one to show off _to_ except for himself.

Thus chastised, he sat back down and ducked out of the way of the hatch as he pushed it closed. Charles spun the lock tight and then waited, for a moment, to listen to the rumble of captured steam, to the secret army in the war against contamination. One of the machines was prone to leaking its spent water, and another tended to rattle disconcertedly, but they were all functional and the telepath suspected that, so long as they were properly maintained, they could enjoy longer lives than many of the mansion's inhabitants.

Finally, Charles grew bored of the burnished steel and puddled concrete and decided to go and see whether Hannah had anything more interesting for him to do; or perhaps Beast had finished with his writing and could afford to be distracted for an extra few minutes.

It hit him the moment he nudged the door open, like the sudden angry reek of hydrochloric acid—Emma Frost, nearby, her presence scattered and echoed through the open doors and shielded walls. Charles winced, his hand raising to his head reflexively as he searched: _where?_ he asked, flitting from eye to eye until he saw her. _There_, there she was; up the hallway in the next lab. Performing a random inspection.

_Beast_, Charles thought, his tongue sticking like sandpaper to the roof of his mouth; Beast was still in his office, memory still intact, and Emma—Emma was getting ready to leave, to walk out in the hallway, down to _their_ lab, and if she saw him—if she saw him she would want to _talk_ and he'd _never_ get to Beast in time, couldn't change Beast's memory while she was standing right there—

Charles squeezed his eyes closed, drove the fingers of his mind deep into the brain of a tech—there was no time for subtlety—and _shoved_; in the lab down the hall a hapless biologist stumbled over nothing, tripped, bumped into Emma, and dropped the plastic jug full of bleach he had been pouring into a cylinder. Charles didn't even need to push the tech into diving to his knees at Emma's feet to stop the bleach from slopping out all over the floor; instead he applauded, silently, as he darted out into the hall and raced down into his own lab—as Emma curled her lip in disdain and stepped around the tech, into the hallway Charles had just left.

The geneticist kept and air of calm as he wheeled through the suddenly over-crowded room toward Beast's closed office door, his mind quite literally elsewhere; he could not read Emma without alerting her to his interest, and there was no one else around to see her. He counted out her steps in his mind, hindered by the fact that he himself had never walked that corridor; she was bored, he knew at least that she was bored, but would she walk quickly to get it over with or would she take her time?

In the time it took him to reach Beast's office, it seemed as if she must surely have been able to walk down the hall and back four times at least, and he had to fight not to glance around as he knocked. She had eyes in the room, he knew, but he could not feel whose they were.

There was the noise of shuffling papers from inside, and Charles thought it was probably the sound of papers being set aside; at least, he hoped so. His knee bounced a little, a small anxious luxury, and he tapped his thumb on the side of the armrest, out of sight. He looked around. The music playing from the radio was strangely atonal and disharmonious, more of that new rock music and it felt almost like funhouse music, mad and maddening and winding his nerves tight anew with each revolution of the guitar.

"_The yellow jester does not play, but gently pulls the strings…_"

Over the uneasy wobble of the mellotron, Charles thought he heard Beast's chair roll out from the desk. He noticed, absently, that Hannah had shut her lab again.

"…_He smiles as the puppets dance—in the court of the crimson king…_"

Footsteps.

The door swung open and Beast peered out, pleasant confusion lifting the blue ridges of his eyebrows as he began, "Professor—?" But he didn't have time to finish as Charles caught his eyes, trapped his mind, and _tucked_—

Emma's curiosity washed over him just as he withdrew, and Charles smoothly turned to face her, his eyebrows arched in casual inquiry. Beast, too, blinked and stared across the room at the other telepath. He looked so lost, for a moment, that Charles cringed away from his mind, thinking back to earlier: _It's so strange, when I can't remember the things we do when we're alone_, he'd said, but had left unspoken how helpless he felt in between their meetings; the impotent rage he felt thinking of Charles following blindly at Erik's side.

Picking her way across the room with distaste, Emma could have vanished into the white of the tile; may well have, for all that the other scientists avoided seeing her. Here and there, one of the biologists would freeze for a moment as she pinned them in place for closer study; her thoughts pressed against his own, for a moment, testing for entrance, and Charles broadcasted back a blank static. She left the surface of his mind with a mental shrug and an unconcerned, _it was worth a try_.

"Well look at you two," Emma commented aloud. "Snug as bugs, I see."

"We _do_ work together," Charles pointed out, with rather less warmth in his voice than was polite. Beside him, Beast's eyes took on a glazed look, and the geneticist fought the urge to stop Emma; it would be so easy, just to reach out and snap the shards she dug into Beast's thoughts, to leave her mind bruised and reeling—possibly even to make her _stop_, for good, to go straight to the spun gypsum _source_ of her outstretched telepathy and cut it off at the root. There was no doubt in his mind that he _could_, so long as he didn't mind the consequences.

Charles wanted to do it; he wanted to see her face when she tried to reach out and found nothing. He wondered if she would handle it as well as he had; hoped that she wouldn't. For a bitter, angry moment, he hoped that she would cry.

Charles took a deep breath, and then Beast shifted and his eyes cleared and focused and Emma had finished. The moment was gone. And anyway, what would he have done, after?

"Are you done interrupting our work yet?" Beast growled, the sharp edges of his teeth conspicuous in his speech.

Emma tilted her head and pretended to consider. "I think so," she said, without a trace of concern. "So long as you don't interrupt mine." Her gaze lingered on Charles, a glint of suspicion shining through her nonchalance.

Charles looked back coolly, willing his heartbeat out of his face as Emma reluctantly turned to go; as she sauntered out through the lab, the fringe of her short skirt brushing and riding not-so-accidentally along the curve of a chair. The geneticist dragged his eyes away from her thigh with a little shiver of disgust and sat still, for a moment, staring at a drawer that claimed to be full of pipette tubes.

Surely it was coincidence. Surely Emma Frost hadn't come _then_, right when Beast had been vulnerable, when Charles had been gone, for any reason other than chance. Surely they had not come so close to being discovered because they had been sloppy.

Charles had thought that when Raven told him about her partner, it had been simply to talk—but what if it had been a warning? What if she really _had_ been warning him off? He'd never known her to be so subtle; there was no _reason_ for her to be so subtle—but what if it were true? What if they knew?

He looked to Beast and expected to share a panicked relief with the leonine scientist, but of course the other mutant was as blank and unaware as anyone else.

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	18. Chapter 18

Hello all! Nice to see you again. :) I wanted to warn you that updates will probably be shorter here, but just so that they can be more frequent, as scene length allows. This one is a bit longer than usual, perhaps.

This was fun to write—it has ALL THE FEELINGS and of course, Charles and Erik's conversations are always an enjoyable challenge.

Credit for this chapter making sense goes to my LJ beta idioticonion, and credit for all watch-related nerdery goes to my friend Doormouse, who expressed a deep disappointment that, in an earlier chapter, I mentioned Charles' watch and then did not describe it.

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**lxxi.**

"…_These chaps were not much account, really. They were no colonists; their administration was merely a squeeze, and nothing more, I suspect. They were conquerors, and for that you want only brute force—_" here Erik paused in his reading, and cleared his throat quickly— "_nothing to boast of, when you have it, since your strength is just an accident arising from the weakness of others…_"

Charles leaned his head back onto the man's shoulder and peered up into his face, searching for a clue; for some sign that Erik suspected him. Perhaps there was anger in the way he read, or maybe the hand he held against the telepath's stomach was heavy with regret as well as bone and blood.

Erik paused, looking away from his book and down at Charles; they were very close. From that angle, Charles could see up beneath the beak of the helmet, and so he knew when the frown lines between Erik's eyebrows eased into something softer. Those were not the eyebrows of a paranoid man. _But…_

"Is something wrong?" Erik murmured, and Charles blinked, slow and thoughtful. Against his stomach, the other man's hand flexed absently, drawing dunes through his shirt.

Charles shook his head wordlessly and lowered his chin, looking away, but Erik folded the book over a few of his fingers and brought his hand up to touch the hair on Charles' forehead; the cover of _Heart of Darkness_ brushed over his nose and momentarily narrowed the geneticist's world down to the fussing of Erik's fingers, now twining some of those brown strands between their tips.

"You let them cut too much off," Erik stated, and Charles turned his face out from beneath the book to stutter his lips into a smile.

"Do you think I had any control? I'm lucky to have escaped with my head, let alone my hair." Charles raised his hand to rub against his scalp, still surprised by how easy that had become. It was not so terribly short after all, except in comparison to the lengths he'd allowed it in the past weeks, but the extra few centimeters had made their impression.

Erik's fingertips brushed his for the briefest of instants, and then he set the book back down, open over his knee. He brought his other hand up from the Charles' body to set beneath the telepath's chin, tipping it up even as Erik ducked his head down and pressed his nose into Charles' temple, inhaling deeply.

Charles closed his eyes and held very still in Erik's grip, breathing slowly, lightly—as if there were someone else in the room whom he feared disturbing. Then, finally, Erik drew back slightly and, with a low humor in his voice, remarked, "You smell very… _flowery_."

Pulling back to protest against having had anything to do with that, Charles met Erik's gaze and—stopped, his mouth still parted to speak, trapped by the deep creases around the other man's eyes, the steep wry curve of his lips, the lazy droop of his eyelids as he looked down at the geneticist. Charles thought back to Raven's words, to Beast's words; remembered the fatigue and stress that normally etched into Erik's features, subsumed now by the topography of affection.

He stared into Erik's eyes, green-gray and shifting, always shifting to refresh their view of the world, and Charles' breathing slowed, the whirling of his thoughts slowed, and for a moment he was falling, tipping, tumbling—_no_. Charles stopped himself, ruthlessly; thrust into memory and tore out images to press again the window of his mind: a map of the world and the parts of it that had been burned, subsumed by volcanism, drowned, irradiated; his own long years in what he was only beginning to realize had been an almost frozen isolation; Erik, restricting the blood to his brain until he lost consciousness; Erik, stealing his life, his world, his lips, his body—but _not_, so long as Charles could help it, his heart.

It hurt, as stepping into the path of any rolling boulder would, but it worked; Charles inhaled shakily, and was proud to find that he could still take Erik's scent calmly, analytically; it crept through his nose not as an invader, but as a specimen to be examined, cataloged, and then, finally, dismissed. He could manage it.

Erik's hand moved, brushed down from his chin to Charles' neck; there was none of the threat from the previous day, only a soft caress along the muscle that stretched from the back of Charles' skull to his sternum. It would have been soothing, if Charles hadn't felt so much like he was merely something warm and soft for Erik to stroke; someone for Erik to dote on.

Again, more quietly this time, Erik asked, "What's wrong?"

Charles knew his stare was too thoughtful as he said, "You could take the book with you, you know. When you leave. So that I don't read it while you're gone. You could read the whole thing to me."

Erik looked down at the book on his knee, then up again at Charles as he cradled the telepath's neck. "I don't want you to be bored," he admitted.

A sharp line of wire snagged inside Charles' ribs, and he couldn't help the tug of his lips away from his teeth; Charles tried to disguise the grimace as a wry smile. "You treat me too well."

Mouth twitching up in preparation for a joke, Erik waited, but when none came he sobered, tilting his knuckles beneath Charles' jaw and angling the geneticist's head for a better view. Charles held still and allowed himself to be studied; studied in turn as Erik's eyebrows dipped in consideration. "What do you mean?" the other man asked, and Charles could not be sure whether his tone was coaxing or sad.

Charles tried to turn his head away, but Erik's hand was unyielding so he looked into Erik's eyes as he explained, "I'm a prisoner, Erik. It's disingenuous to pretend otherwise."

Frowning, probably unaware of the absent curling up of his fingers against Charles' neck, Erik protested, "I'm not pretending; I just don't think it's necessary to treat you badly."

"It's embarrassing," Charles corrected, "especially when so many people elsewhere are going without and here I am, eating luxuries every day, in rooms larger and better appointed than most people's houses."

Erik stared at him steadily. "What are you suggesting, Charles?" he asked. His tone was not inviting.

"I'm not _suggesting_ anything, I'm telling you not to treat me like your honored guest when I'm so obviously not."

Charles attempted to turn away again, finished with the conversation, and this time Erik did not just stop him but actually _pulled_ his head, almost too far, until they were nose-to-nose. "Remember who pays for your luxuries, Charles," Erik hissed. His voice dropped in pitch and he continued, tilting his head a little, "It's arrogant of you to call yourself a prisoner and then expect me to listen to your demands."

The geneticist passed his tongue over his lips and replied, "Save your money. I'm not worth steak."

Erik's fingers curled around his neck. "You are to me," he growled.

Charles tried to tug himself away, and was stopped again. "That's very sweet," he bit, his words full of acid. "Are you going to tell me you love me now?"

Erik froze; he stopped breathing entirely for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed and he flexed his hand as if he really wanted to clutch harder. "Don't be ridiculous, Charles," he rumbled, low and dangerous. His fingers massaged Charles' throat meaningfully.

The telepath found himself chuckling with a helpless black humor. "Do you think that's threatening? I know you don't have the resolve to actually hurt me." Charles pushed forward, and Erik swayed away; feeling giddy and irresponsible, Charles reached up and pulled him back by the scruff of his neck, until their lips just barely touched. Centimeters away, Erik's eyes met his, flaring with private anger.

Charles brushed their mouths together and said, against Erik's skin, "Or maybe you'd find another way to punish me; to make yourself feel powerful again." Charles huffed a bitter laugh over Erik's lips. "Because that's what it's about, isn't it? If you can conquer me, then maybe you can prove to yourself that you weren't such a failure at conquering the world."

Erik was almost perfectly still; perfectly, until he leaned very slightly forward and pressed the smooth curve of his lips briefly to Charles' in a gentle, chaste kiss. "This isn't meant to be a punishment," he murmured.

Charles threw himself away and gave Erik a look of confused irritation. "Then why do it? Why do this me?"

Reaching to bring Charles back, Erik assured, "I do care about you, Charles."

The geneticist pushed Erik's hand away sharply, and the words tumbled out recklessly: "I'm not your friend, Erik. I'm either not your friend or I'm not your prisoner, so trust me, don't trust me, respect my wishes or don't—but choose a side and stop trying to have it both ways."

Erik frowned and reached for Charles again, only to have his wrist slapped at once more. "Charles, _come here_—"

"No, Erik, _Erik_, let me talk—" The other man's fingers were wrapped around Charles' arms. The telepath's face twisted into a grimace as he tried to pull away.

Tugged over by Charles' struggling, Erik bared his teeth and squeezed his hands tighter around Charles. "There's no negotiation," he snarled. "You're _mine_."

Charles stopped, collapsing against Erik's chest, and glanced up at him through his disheveled fringe; his blue eyes glinted slyly and he saw the moment Erik realized what he was about to do, when the other man tensed and furrowed his brows just the tiniest bit, and then Charles exploded into motion; he did what he'd wanted to do for a long time and he moved _everywhere_, thrashing and kicking.

He was strong; years of pushing himself around by his arms had left him strong and capable. The geneticist took a certain gleeful joy in the feeling of his elbow connecting with Erik's face, and as the man lifted his arms to protect himself Charles drove that same elbow into Erik's ribs, approximately where he guessed the man had been injured a few weeks earlier, and was rewarded with a pained, wheezing grunt. Erik grabbed for his wrists and his jacket scrapped between Charles' teeth as he snapped at Erik's hands.

Charles struggled and writhed and pulled at the back of the couch; he would crawl away over the _floor_ if that's what it took to make his point, but—but Erik held grimly on, had weathered through the blows to wrap an arm around Charles' torso and Charles' fingertips scrabbled smooth and blunt over the slick curve of Erik's helmet before Erik finally managed to secure first one wrist and then the other and tuck them down beneath the telepath's chin.

All Charles could do was kick and thrash and since his feet were over _there_ he could not reach Erik with them, couldn't twist himself around in Erik's grasp and find the man's shins, but he tried anyway, for a while, all of it in a strange silence punctuated only by the occasional hissed breath from either his or Erik's lungs.

He slowed, and then stopped altogether, lying panting in Erik's arms, struggling to breathe in his vice-like grip. Charles looked across the room, down at his feet, then up, out the corner of his eye, to see that Erik did not appear to have been particularly fazed by the display; he was breathing heavily, and a bit gingerly, but he nonetheless seemed almost _bored_.

Erik let out a long, slow sigh, and cautiously let go of Charles' wrists, leaving them tangled together where they lay on his sternum. Then, wearing the same no-expression, he brought that hand up to Charles' face, where he lined the tips of his fingers up against Charles' lips and applied a gentle but insistent pressure.

Charles tried to turn his head, and Erik's hand followed with him; the man's nails, though short, dug into the soft skin of his lips, but it was not unbearable. He could grit his teeth against it. He could take Erik's fingers into his mouth and then bite down; he was not so exhausted that he could no longer do either of those things. He could, he could, he could…

Charles relaxed his jaw and Erik's fingers slid into his mouth, their tips settling in the hollow behind his teeth; strange and awkward guests his tongue did not quite know how to greet, but felt obligated to lie atop of.

He peered over at Erik uncertainly, to find that the other mutant was merely watching him, no humor or desire in his eyes at all; only patient appraisal.

Erik leaned down a little bit to be nearer to Charles' ear. "Is this mean enough for you, Charles?" he asked, voice low and menacing. Inside Charles' mouth, he stroked a slow finger along the Charles' molars. Then he shook Charles' head by his jaw. "_This_ is what it means to be a prisoner. It's not the walls or the food or the company—it's _this_; it's that you gave me your rights before I could take them, because you already assumed they were gone."

He pulled his fingers out from between Charles' lips and drew them in a wet line down the cleft of his chin; then Erik blinked and shifted and brought his hand up to the telepath's hair, to smooth it out where it lay tousled. Charles looked on, blankly.

"Every injustice you claim is one you've allowed me," Erik continued, feeling out his own nose appraisingly and finding it sore but undamaged. His eyes snapped up to meet Charles'. "Everything, from the moment you surrendered yourself to me, to the moment you—" Erik swayed close, his lips on Charles' brow— "let me kiss you, has been yours to refuse. But you haven't; in all this time, you haven't, and who's to blame for that?"

Charles peered over at him sullenly. The meanness _was_ good, actually; it helped clear his head. He didn't feel so turbid and stupid anymore; the corners of his mind felt sharp and new, holding strong against the crash of his pulse. "Are you trying to lay all the responsibility for this on me? What next, are you going to say that it's my fault I let you destroy the world and kill a third of its people?"

A miniscule smirk crept onto Erik's face. "I can't say it wouldn't make an interesting discussion—after all, you might still have won that day, if you'd been willing to gamble, and it's likely I would never have had the same opportunity again. Maybe history would be markedly different, if that had been the case—but there's no point in speculation this far after the fact."

Charles glared down into his lap as Erik spoke. "No, Charles, that's _not_ what I'm trying to imply. I do find it interesting, however, that you're demanding I give you less appetizing food. I have to wonder if it's really for the reasons you've given me."

He held his hand palm-down and open in front of Charles, and the telepath's breath caught in his throat; Erik's mind had seized his watch, _his_ watch, which quite aside from being a very nice watch was also his _last possession_—the last physical thing he still owned. His chair and clothing had all been replaced bit by bit and now this was the last thing, and there it was, in the grasp of a person who could crumple it into a sad golden ball with a thought—and even if Erik could rebuild it, even if Erik re-created every little gear and screw and left the face intact, it would still be _changed_, irrevocably.

It would no longer be the watch Charles had worn on the plane to Canada, in the house outside Chiliwack, throughout the war—the watch no one had ever tried to take from him even though he couldn't have stopped them, even though he'd expected them to, even though it was gold and a Rolex and didn't need to be supplied with increasingly rare batteries. No one had touched it, until now, and Charles couldn't help but imagine Erik as a physical presence in the movement, sliding around inside like a python that might at any moment flex its body and shatter the delicate bones of its prey, which was ridiculous really because it wasn't as if Erik went around breaking everyone's things just because he could.

Instead, Erik settled his fingertips very delicately around the gold case and brought his other hand up to cradle Charles' wrist. One long, slender finger traced the barest edge of the translucent sapphire, casting a cool shadow over the ivory beneath.

Charles couldn't speak.

"I don't expect you to understand what it really means to be a prisoner," Erik murmured into his ear, voice hushed and languid. "You've never experienced hardship, or had to go without. I think you've latched onto the idea of poor food and bare walls because it's the most foreign thing you can imagine, and that you believe that so long as you don't see those things when you look around, you're not being treated badly."

He held a finger against Charles' watch for a long moment, as if feeling for a heartbeat, and continued, "I'm sure you know that those aren't the only ways to deprive a person, but I don't think you want to apply that reasoning to yourself; you complain that your food's too good and your rooms are too nice and I think you do that to make yourself feel better about the fact that this whole time you've been trading around your rights around like any common convict who's ever exchanged a favor for a small luxury."

Erik pushed his last two fingers beneath the black leather band, propping the watch up away from Charles' skin, and in that cramped space he pinched the watch's crown between his thumb and middle finger, delicate and precise as a surgeon. He spun it counterclockwise until it popped out, then pulled it another two notches to adjust the hands from nine back to seven. Then Erik pushed it back in, twice, and began carefully to wind, twirling the crown under the pad of his thumb. It made a soft sound like the wings of a moth beating trapped in a tin.

Charles remained silent as Erik's breath caressed the shell of his ear. "The truth is that you can't _stand_ to be deprived. You had the option to live like a prisoner and you've already given it up in favor of having people to talk to and things to do. _You're_ the one who's pretending; you're the one who's sold out, and the only reason you want to be treated badly now is so that you can feel like a victim instead of a whore."

Erik's fingers slowed to a stop, lingered, and then he re-set the hands, pressed the crown back in, and screwed it tight. The second hand flitted merry and gold over its ivory world, and Erik held the face tilted, for a moment, as if to check its progress or to show Charles that it was unharmed. Charles stared at it mutely.

"I won't do that for you, Charles," Erik told him. "I won't help you delude yourself, and until you stop and realize that for yourself, you'll never be free. But someday—someday you'll wake up and you'll no longer be a prisoner, and I'll be waiting for you."

He studied Charles for a long while to see whether the telepath had any reply, and eventually he set Charles' wrist down again. Erik didn't untangle their fingers, but his other hand went back to the book and after finding his spot again he began to read.

Charles looked down at their fingers and tried to think, feeling as if he were trapped in amber for any curious eye to turn over and examine in the light of his mistakes.

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	19. Chapter 19

Warnings in this chapter for some semi-explicit sexual references!

You're welcome. ;)

Beta'd by LJ's own idioticonion!

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**lxxii.**

As Charles lay in bed that night his mind churned with anger and he tried to tell himself that it was not because he suspected Erik might be right. After all, he hadn't had much of a choice, had he? Although, Erik had stopped, before, when Charles had been uncomfortable… The man had listened to him then; it stood to reason that Erik would listen to him _again_, but… But Charles _needed_ to be close, didn't he, if he wanted to be near enough to drug the dictator and remove his helmet? In order to _save the world_.

Regardless, it was _Charles'_ body and he could use it any way he wanted and this was definitely something he had already squared himself away with—and except for the small issue of actually finding Erik's touch… _Not entirely_ unpleasant, the telepath did not have a problem. He was, in fact, handling everything _marvelously_ and if he maybe enjoyed some aspects of the physical intimacy then, well, Charles had a sex-positive outlook, didn't he?

So really it was a _good_ thing that he had a healthy appreciation for Erik's body—no, techniques—no, okay, _body_, because it meant he was still human. Mutant. One of those. Either way, really; if Erik wanted to imply that he was a whore then surely the best refutation was to enjoy sex for sex's sake. If Erik wanted him to feel bad about it, then Charles simply wouldn't be ashamed. Maybe it was something Erik owed him, for his troubles; for his legs and subsequently less exciting sex life. Charles couldn't say that the idea didn't have a certain appeal, although… Although it _did_ seem a bit heartless, to bed a man he intended to betray.

Still, it wasn't as if he was going to rush out to sleep with Erik. If Charles was going to use his body to bargain, then why not use it to the fullest extent that he could? Besides, he was still very much irritated with the man and he fully intended to enjoy giving Erik the cold shoulder for a while. In the meantime, however, it neatly solved Charles' own stresses about his emotions and he would no longer feel guilty imagining Erik in that way, because dammit, he could imagine anyone he _wanted_, couldn't he? Erik couldn't take _that_ away from him. His mind was still his own and that included all the primitive parts as well.

Charles let his eyelids drift closed and reminded himself again, _sex-positive—I'm pro-sex, I'm not going to be ashamed about this_. Then, because he could, to prove that he could, he moved a hand from his chest and trailed down his stomach, bare beneath the covers, and touched the hem of the soft boxers he slept in.

As he paused to rub the worn cotton between his fingertips, Charles remembered Erik's mouth by his jaw, the soft breath of the word _whore_ stirring the short hairs through the channels of his ear down to shiver the tiny bones in his skull. He shivered now, too; his skin prickled and he felt his dick twitch against his thigh and Charles thought, _maybe not in that direction._

So as he slid his fingers under the waistband Charles instead thought back, to a different Erik, one who didn't know anything about this future and what he'd done. Charles felt a moment of pity for that Erik and marveled at how young he'd been, although of course Charles now was still not as old as Erik then. But that was good; it was easier, to think about that man. There was less chance of getting him mixed up with the modern Erik.

He recalled Erik's kiss before Cuba; or maybe he remembered the older Erik's kiss and had simply substituted those lips between the nervous glances of the younger man. As Charles stroked himself slowly, not yet in earnest, he recalled the feel of muscles held too anxiously taut to tremble beneath his hand; the rough textural ensemble of nylon and Kevlar and the rich commingled scent of leather and polymer and Erik's cologne.

He pictured Erik's too-casual smirk, after, only this time instead of dismissing his advance Charles grabbed for the other man's neck and pulled him down again; stifled the shocked noise Erik made with the crash of their mouths together; imagined the Erik of the past holding onto Charles' ribs at first in hesitant disbelief and then out of desperate reflex as the telepath drove him back to the wall.

Charles moistened his lips with his tongue, shifted his hips, and pulled his underwear a little down his thighs so that he could touch himself unobstructed; he cupped the palm of his hand around his cock and began gently to tug. If he had actually pinned Erik against the wall that day—well, they would have been too late to stop Shaw, for one thing, but Erik would have been very surprised, to say the least. Charles _was_ after all fantasizing about jumping the man after a peck on the lips.

Rather than envision an entire story where they slowly grew comfortable with each other, Charles decided that he liked the idea of Erik off his guard; confused and aroused. He chose to imagine that perhaps, although the Erik in his head was younger, the Charles that pinned him down and devoured the line of his throat was still himself, somehow gone back in time to take out his frustrations on a man who had not yet committed any crimes.

_Perhaps I save the world through sex with Erik_, Charles thought, breaking his silence with a coughed chuckle, eyes still squeezed closed. Then he dismissed that idea—it had the potential to turn painful—and tightened his grip; the slide of his fingers made a furtive sibilant noise in the dark room, broken by the hiss of air through teeth as Charles imagined peeling Erik out of the flight suit—seeing the muscles his turtlenecks and slacks had only hinted at, tracing them with his lips, grasping their lean planes with his hands.

Charles' hand had farther to travel, now, and moved faster to make up for it; too fast to bother imagining foreplay and he was getting too warm under the covers. It was amazing, how much easier this went now that he could really _feel_ it; even though he wasn't _touching_ his legs, and even though it was all pretty much automatic down there, anyway—his mind flashed, for a moment, to that old psychology question: _do emotions arise in the brain and cause the body to react, or are emotions the brain's way of responding to changes in the body?_ Charles didn't know; even as a telepath he couldn't be sure, but as he kicked his feet out from beneath the sheets and the fabric dragged back the hair of his legs and a surge of pleasure curled through his toes he thought, _maybe, it might be true_. But that was only anecdotal evidence at best.

So, the younger Erik—although Charles reminded himself again that it had been a long time since Erik had been young—the past Erik, maybe not so confident, still unused to the telepath's touch—how would he _sound_, if Charles took him right there against the wall after no more preamble than a kiss? Erik tended to be quiet, he knew, but Charles conjured the memory of one of his infrequent, fractured moans, of Erik's hands tight on his arse—shoulders?—no, _arse_, clutching as the geneticist pushed into him, because… Because it would almost certainly be the opposite, once Erik actually did—once they—so for now, the Erik in his head would have to be happy getting fucked, and since he _was_ in Charles head—he _would_ be.

Charles didn't know how the logistics would work out between two men up against a wall, face-to-face, but he was sure it sounded lovely and probably their height difference would make it easier. He made a small noise of negation because no, that was not the point, the point was—_Erik, my old friend, where have you gone_, and Charles imagined Erik hot against his hips as he sank down onto Charles, just the barest tremor in his thighs as his legs bent and just the slightest gasp into the telepath's hair.

_Why didn't I do this sooner_, Charles thought, and wasn't sure whether he meant the fantasy or what that fantasy contained. He was very warm; he tried to ignore it, he didn't have all that long left to endure it, but his skin flushed in prickles until he tossed the covers off of himself entirely. The startling cold rushed over his body in a swirling welcome of current, almost electric in its intensity and it was like everything extra had washed away, all the extra heat and thought and worry, just sand surrounding one firm stone of _desire lust mine_ and the pull around his dick that wasn't Erik but was almost, nearly, close enough.

An eddy of cool air caressed the dip of Charles' sternum and it occurred to him that with his boxers down below his balls and the covers thrown off he was essentially bared to the world, if anyone could look, and he imagined—he imagined what the modern Erik, the real Erik, _his_ Erik, might think to see him like that, whether he would be jealous, excluded, if he would _envy_ his mental doppelganger if he knew, if he would reach out and touch, _yes_—

Charles' lips pulled back from his teeth, his mouth fell open, his knees pulled up and he arched into his hand, tugs turning slow and lurching as line after hot fluid line lashed and then pooled over his fingers and stomach. All thoughts seared out of his skull in a flash-bulb flare of light; for a moment he was nothing and going nowhere until his heart pulsed and one more stripe of semen draped itself over his thumb and dripped down through the groove of his nail.

Lowering his knees gingerly back down to the bed, Charles took a moment just to _breathe_. He felt sluggish and warm, despite the mixture of sugar, mucus, and genetic material evaporating cold on his belly, and the telepath opened his eyelids, low and heavy, to look down at himself. The blood was already draining from his penis, not quite fast enough to watch but he did so anyway and over the next few minutes it slid gradually down through the loose collar of his slick fingers, contented, job complete.

Charles, for a moment, envied its single-minded drive, and wasn't that silly, to be jealous of a thing that was still only, distantly, a part of his brain? Like being jealous of his medulla oblongata for its easy capability to regulate his breathing. It was all hormones and neurotransmitters, in the end, every single bit of him, and maybe that was why he was doomed to be so _stupid_. This had been a stupid idea, _obviously_, because really, what good had he thought might come of this? That he might somehow _get back_ at Erik by fantasizing about his younger self?

And the worst part was that Charles knew none of that would stop him from doing it again.

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**lxxiii.**

Perhaps that was why, when Badger gestured toward a draped sheet that did absolutely nothing at all to disguise the crutches beneath and declared, "Guess what, I've got a present for you," Charles only spared a moment to frown at the thing before asking, "Are you seeing anyone, Badger?"

The white tufts of her eyebrows jumped up and she examined him with a look approaching awe. "Whoa, _Tiger_, I didn't think you had it in you!"

Charles folded his hands in his lap casually, giving her a look of aloof disapproval. "What, just because I'm in a chair?"

Badger waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, no, I know you can _do_ it—I just thought I'd have you cowering in fear by now!"

"You're not that frightening," Charles informed her, voice mild and tight.

The furred woman touched clawed fingers to her heart. "I'm hurt, Charles, really. You wound me."

They stared at each other for a long, expectant moment, until Badger rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "Yes, yes, I know it's hard to believe but I _do_ have a man and no, he doesn't wear pink, he's really very hunky and everything. You should get out more, hell, I'm _so_ not your type, I can just tell."

Charles frowned, but most definitely did _not_ pout. "It's not like I have much choice," he muttered.

Badger clapped her hands and then rubbed them together with a rasp of thick callous. "I know what you need," she declared. "You need a way to move around in style. You need a way to show all the girls that you're no candyass square."

Wincing, Charles said, "I know what you've got under the sheet and I can already tell you I don't like it, so you can stop trying to sell me on it."

Showing her pointed white teeth in a cruel grin, Badger replied, "Aw, but Charlie, you'll be haulin' _ass_ in these." She whipped the sheet away, revealing a pair of bright steel rods, each well over a meter long, kinked near the top with a plastic loop and a hand rest bolted into the metal. They were not graceful; rather, they suffered from the terrible affliction of pragmatism, clunky-looking and yellowed around the edges of the plastic.

The geneticist stared at the crutches forlornly; he was sure that not only would they fail to endear him to any women, they would bring him even more staring than the chair. Anyone could end up in a wheelchair, after all; it was common enough, especially since the war. In fact it was almost a luxury now; there were plenty of people who couldn't even afford the ability to move themselves around without functioning legs. It was stately, in a way, to coast wherever one needed to go; dignified in a way lurching around on crutches was, by definition, _not_.

But more important by far was the fact that it hadn't been much longer than a decade since the polio vaccine had been released to the public, and although Charles had never directly _known_ anyone with the disease—well, he knew the precautions people took when confronted with the possibility of a recurrence, and in the memories of those old enough to have a Before, the epidemic seemed more recent than it ever would have been if there had never been a war. Vaccinations were probably scarce, now, and in a world like this—who wanted to take the chance of losing control of their muscles, if they could avoid it?

"Cheer up, bucko," Badger chided him, picking the crutches up by their handles. "This is a good thing. This means _progress_. You're one timid, shuffling step closer to being able to walk on your own!"

Grimacing, Charles set his brakes down and then reached up to take the woman's hand; she hauled him up with unfair ease and pinned him to her side as she held one of the devices out for the geneticist to insert his arm into, passing his hand through the ring and grabbing onto the bar beneath. He went silent at her nearness and concentrated on propping the tip of the thing against the floor, rather than consider what he'd tried to ask of her.

Once he wore both crutches, Badger stepped away from him and Charles swayed, for a moment, feeling quite as if he were going to tip over. He blinked and concentrated on keeping his balance; he'd forgotten how complex standing in one spot could be. So different from standing in between a pair of fixed bars; there were so many little muscles, all flexing and relaxing at once. His had gone sluggish and responded only grudgingly, like temperamental children.

Badger poked the small of his back, and Charles hissed a little as his scar twinged. "Mind your posture," she scolded him. "You don't want to re-learn how to walk only to end up in bed again with a thrown back."

She circled around him, examining the telepath's pose before returning to his front and nodding appreciatively. "Why, Mr. Xavier, you almost look imposing! Let's see about walking in these, eh? We'll go until you fall over and then you'll learn how to stand up in them. It shouldn't take long."

Charles grumbled to himself, something concerning people who ought to go back to school and get their certifications learned properly, took one lurching step forward, and toppled down onto the rubber floor.

"Not long at all, then," Badger observed brightly.

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**lxxiv.**

Charles' ego was dented more than his body by the time he made it into the lab; Badger hadn't caught him a single time, but she'd hovered nearby and made his falls gentler. Most of his bruises, in fact, came of wrenching his forearms on the hard loops of the crutches as he tried to stand up again, and he'd been less than thrilled when he'd gone to wheel gratefully away and the woman had set them over his lap with instructions to practice walking with them as often as he was able.

The telepath had left them back in his rooms—he'd try them again later—before going to see Beast, and as it turned out it was a good thing Charles couldn't stand as he would only have needed to sit down again right away.

"They've denied my request for a re-print," Beast told him glumly, staring down at the letter through his thick glasses.

"What?" Charles asked, although he'd heard just fine. "Why?"

The leonine scientist sighed and tossed the paper back onto his desk, where it drifted to a rest somewhat anticlimactically. "They don't need to give me a reason," he explained. "Clearly they suspect that something's wrong."

The geneticist tilted his head. "Frost?" he asked, the doubt in his voice mostly self-directed. Charles felt sure that she couldn't have found anything in Beast's memory, but… Just to be sure, he held his fingers to his temple and brushed against the other mutant's mind, soft as a feather.

Beast let him in and Charles took that whirling lightening-storm chaos and thought, _too abstract, too unfamiliar, how would another person see it?_—so he imagined it differently, set the storm into walls and floor and then he was standing in the lab—how could it be anything else?—but empty, empty except for the bottles on the shelves and the labels on the drawers, and Charles was alone except for the radio, quietly singing in a startling jaunty tune, _a fool never learns to get away, just run away before his heart begins to break…_

A tight, ironic smile crossed Charles' lips, just for a moment, and then he turned his mental self around on the spot, on ephemeral legs, looking for anything out of place; anything that could point back to his tampering. There was, he was glad to see, nothing terribly obvious; Beast's mind was a well-organized place, and if Charles didn't look too closely at the labels on the drawers and solutions—one jar of fluorescent green liquid, he noticed, was marked **10 x 0.5M **_**regret**_—it almost looked just like a lab in the real world, albeit unrealistically clean.

_A fool never learns; he'll wait around, just hang around to see how much his heart can take…_ the radio fizzed. The messes were always hidden, though, weren't they? Stashed away. The records of failed experiments were torn from notepads, and wasted supplies were dumped into biohazard bins, calibrations expired and were forgotten…

Charles moved to tip open the lid of the sharps disposal, glanced over the contents quickly—nothing he wanted to dwell on, all gleaming points and shattered glass—and moved on to the sink. He peered down the drain, ran the tap, checked the date for the last time the deionized distilled water had been tested, and looked beneath for mold. Then the geneticist approached the biohazard bin and the radio crackled sharply. _Professor, I'd rather you didn't, ah, look in there_, Beast's distant voice advised, sounding sheepish.

The telepath drew his hand back and pursed his lips in bemused acquiescence, turning instead to glance through the drawers, until finally, there, on the floor—the chipped tile. Charles heard the hum of the vents circulating the air above, suddenly loud; as he crouched down to _not quite_ touch the crack with his fingertip, the odor of bleach grew stronger and stronger in his nostrils, the bones of his wrist seemed to vibrate with the rattle of the vents, his lungs were full of chemical tang and linoleum and _sound_—

Charles stood up again without touching the tile. He looked down at it; the chip in its corner was tiny, under the shadow of the cupboards. Emma Frost would never have noticed it amidst all the juicy distractions of a genius' mind, he decided, and because the lab wasn't real he didn't use the door, he just closed his eyes and—_left_—

The geneticist opened his eyes again and saw Beast do the same, blinking yellow-blue-yellow with surprise. "I was a _room_," he stated, his shaggy eyebrows furrowed.

"You were never anything but yourself," Charles corrected, taking his fingers from his temple. He sounded weary even to his own ears, so he forced more enthusiasm into his words as he continued, "I simply imagined your mind as something more—literal. For convenience. Your thoughts are very organized, by the way."

"Thank you?" Beast guessed. "But—I _felt_ like a _room_!"

"Sorry," Charles replied flatly, slouching a little.

"No, no, it's all right," Beast assured him, a little dazedly. "It was just… _Odd_."

"You were a very nice room," the telepath commented, comfortingly.

"Oh," Beast remarked, looking no less bemused than before. He glanced away, and then back; nodded to himself and swallowed. "Right then. So, did you see anything—uh—unusual, in there? In my head? That Frost might have caught onto?"

Charles frowned and shook his head. "No, if she noticed anything, it would have been our physical actions."

"Have we been acting that strangely?" Beast asked, his black lips pursed in thought as he answered his own question: "It doesn't really matter, does it? We're under the control of the Brotherhood and we're known sympathizers. They don't _need_ a reason to shut my project down."

"If that's the case," Charles mused, "then what can we do?"

Beast hesitated. "I—I don't—" He interrupted himself to breath deeply, then exhaled slowly, with deliberation. "I still remember several of the compounds and samples on the list, from before I threw it away. I could, I could make inquiries, discreetly, check around if anyone else might be able to get a hold of them…"

Charles almost wished he couldn't sense the deep, fatalistic doubt beneath Beast's words. Still, he nodded and agreed and tried not to let the numbness show on his face as he wheeled back through the lab to his workbench.

Hannah had left at some point—he presumed she had gone somewhere more private and less sensitive to contamination so that she could cough freely—so Charles nudged the door mostly-closed. He went to his bench, cleared away his pipettes and sample trays—then set his elbows on the table and his face into his hands, squeezed his eyes tightly closed, and thought, _What do I do now? What could I _possibly_ do now_?

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	20. Chapter 20

Ah, sorry this is a bit late, guys! :o The next one should not take as long, I think, and this one is a few more pages than usual!

As always, thank you all for your kind reviews; I would not be able to write this without them! :)

And thank you to my beta, LJ user idioticonion!

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**lxxv.**

The day was not yet over, as much as Charles would have liked it to be; the past twenty-four hours had been stressful to say the least and it would have been a relief to see them gone. Erik's lecture; his subsequent appearance in Charles' fantasy; the clumsy, stigmatized crutches; and, especially, the potentially fatal blow to his plan with Beast—all of those things had only just happened and now there was another Brotherhood meeting besides.

Charles avoided looking at Erik—had avoided even greeting him in anything more than a perfunctory way when the Brotherhood leader had arrived to escort the geneticist away—and the man seemed to expect no less. Charles found that his anger was still there, simmering away, but worse than that—there was no part of Erik that didn't remind Charles of his activities the night before.

The dream had been one thing; that had been a matter of his subconscious torturing him, tormenting him with reality—because why else would he imagine himself as Erik and then _choose_ to molest his own dream representation? And the body did strange things at night, everyone knew that—even a perfectly innocent nightmare could turn that direction if the body demanded it; here again, perhaps, emotions followed the sensations of the flesh.

What Charles had done last night, however, had been entirely intentional, no matter now much he would have liked to blame his five years of enforced abstinence—his imagination was vivid enough that he could have pictured anyone he liked, had he wanted. It would certain be _convenient_ if he could hold Erik responsible for the way the light played over the shifting tendons of his hands, or how the line of his hip dipped down from his belt loop and curved in a lean sheath of muscle over the greater trochanter of his femur, but… Well, it would be just as convenient to blame Erik for his ability to manipulate metal.

_Would it be different if he were ugly?_ Charles asked himself, bitterly; but he didn't know, so he turned his thoughts away from Erik and stared instead down the table, taking stock of those who were present. As always, there was some variation in which Brotherhood members had come, although the geneticist wasn't sure if that had more to do with which of them happened to be in the area or whether they were specifically invited. Emma Frost was absent again, he saw, but to his surprise Zeus had not been deterred from attending.

Charles met the man's eyes briefly—he caught a flash of scorn, a mental sneer, and then a blur of electricity as Zeus' mutation drowned out the crackling of his neurons. The telepath carefully kept his surprise hidden; was that _new_? Surely he would have noticed if Zeus had done that before. He could have pushed past it, of course, but it was… Disquieting.

Still, it was hardly Charles' concern if one of Erik's—Magneto's—lackeys had learned to shield his mind. Although… The plot to depose Erik seemed ill-fated. Perhaps… Perhaps he _should_ take more of a role in the meetings, in trying to act as the Brotherhood's conscience; after all, what had he intended to _do_ after usurping Erik—overthrow the entire Brotherhood with Beast? Do battle against their militia with some nebulous anti-extinctionist force suddenly under his command? Restructure an entire _world_, just as full of destruction and dissent as it had been under Magneto's rule?

And who would lead that empire—_Charles_? With all of his experience and knowledge in genetic mutation, surely there could be no one else more qualified. And so presidential, too! Even Franklin D. Roosevelt at least had the _bearing_ of a president, even if he had hid his inability to walk—and who in their right mind would _follow_ a man who had not only surrendered, but whose surrendering had allowed the entire predicament in the first place? Perhaps resisting Erik's ultimatum four years ago might have gotten all of them killed, Brotherhood and Charles' students alike, but the rest of the world would likely be unsympathetic.

Charles' attention drifted over until it alighted on Azazel, present for the first time in at least a month—as far as the telepath knew, of course. The man was casually smoking a cigarette, shocking white against his red fingers and doing nothing to relieve his demonic appearance; with every exhalation of breath the mutant seemed to smolder with what might conceivably have been brimstone, had the cigarette not been so obvious.

Quietly, Charles reached out to touch his mind—and stopped guiltily as Azazel's pale blue eyes flicked over to meet his, feeling a little like a kid caught reaching into a candy jar. _Of course_ Azazel would be able to recognize the feeling of a telepath in his head; he'd traveled with Emma Frost for so long, after all, and she didn't exactly seem like the discreet type. He didn't seem upset, however; instead the other mutant appeared… Curious?

Azazel formed a cautious _?_ in his mind and Charles pushed it away gently. Once caught, he didn't want to admit to snooping.

"Five of the nine contracted mutant work teams have refused to proceed with quarrying ore for the new city until we can issue an official statement assuring them of our pro-mutant intentions," Skink reported, pushing his spectacles up over the scales of his nose with his human hand. "The human work teams responsible for recycling building material from the coastal urban areas, on the other hand, are demanding proof that we aren't stealing their villages out from under them."

"They are both valid concerns," Erik pronounced carefully, "but not strictly contradictory. It is to our kind's benefit if we allow and encourage the remnants of humanity to join us. Remember that they still outnumber us by at least four to one in most regions, but we don't need laws in order to be superior. All we need are our genes, and those are hereditary."

There was an overly loud whisper from further down the table: "Do we really need their cooperation for that?"

Erik remained very quiet for a moment and the mutant who had said it withered under his cold stare. "Does that sound like the kind of world you would like to live in?"

The whisperer bowed his head and mumbled something indistinct.

Glancing around at the rest of his assembled subordinates, Erik continued, "We didn't strike first because we wanted…" he curled his lip and spat the word, "_Women_. Our goal isn't to grind humanity out; it's to make sure that we'll be around to take our rightful place in the future. Since what that future entails is up to us… We should be sure not to make it something we're ashamed of."

Several of the Brotherhood members nodded cautiously. Nearer, Infrared muttered, "Bit late for that."

Erik narrowed his eyes at her. "Would you like to make that an official statement?"

"No, sir; just sayin', sir," the woman replied, quickly, straightening in her seat.

"Everything discussed in this room is of utmost importance," Erik told her. "If you do not wish for your off-hand remarks to be taken seriously, don't make them."

They went on for a while longer, discussing how best to deal with the possibility of resumed human-mutant conflict and how to mollify both sides' concerns over each other's sincerity, and after a while Charles tuned them out. He moved his gaze from face to face to maintain the illusion of listening, and maybe he _should_ have been in truth—this issue was practically Charles' responsibility, if Erik was to be believed, but…

He could not trust Erik. The man had possessed no reason to believe that Charles would be able to contribute anything useful to the political discussion, but the geneticist had tried and Erik had taken his word as gold and now where were they? The anti-extinctionists and mutant supremacists were at each other's throats again over what was supposed to be a _peace initiative_ and Charles was half-tempted to tell Erik to discontinue the whole thing and maybe they could investigate space travel and just leave the Earth entirely.

_They're not fighting yet_, Charles reminded himself, inhaling slowly through his nose. Hostilities hadn't resumed _yet_, and so long as that remained true then he had to believe peace was still possible. Because… Because if he couldn't _remove_ Erik's regime, and if he couldn't help it either, then… What was left?

_Keeping Erik's bed warm, probably,_ he mused. Perhaps getting out to work on something scientific every now and then; maybe on biological weapons. It was not, to put it lightly, a prospect Charles relished.

Eventually, the meeting ended with no clear resolution and most of the arrayed mutants stood, lingering to speak to each other about the things that were too personal or too tangential to bring up during the actual conference. Charles began, without looking around, to head toward the door, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him and he looked up to see—

_Erik_. Charles' mind juttered to a stop; the man's eyes met his and for a confused moment Charles wondered dazedly whether perhaps there was another mutant just out of sight about to blow them all up or electrocute them or something equally ghastly because it really did seem like something tangible had taken up residence in the space between them; something so real and strong that it _had_ to have an outside source.

Then Erik squeezed his fingers just a little tighter over Charles' shoulder and he realized that no, this was just how things were now. One glance from Erik and all neural activity stopped, apparently. The spell had been broken, however, so Charles felt free to let his resentment build anew amidst their silence and in the buzzing not-quite-connection where the electrons in Erik's glove repelled the electrons in Charles' suit jacket.

"Wait here for a few minutes," Erik told him, his voice a low rumble. His eyelids creased with warmth and—concern? Yes, the Brotherhood leader knew well enough that there was something wrong. He couldn't address it in public, though, so Erik simply offered him a tight, awkward smile, and went away to speak privately with Skink.

Charles, for a moment, watched him loom over the patchily scaled mutant, standing close and with his helmeted head tilted elegantly down and to the side to get closer. With a morbid fascination, the telepath allowed his gaze to flow along the fall of Erik's cape, down to his ankles, the long arch of his boots—

He blinked and looked away, toward nothing in particular, and he made his mind go blank because he didn't want to think about Erik's _boots_, of all things. So instead, Charles let himself lean back, soak into the perceptions of those around him—the little flashes of anger and pride and even, occasionally, camaraderie—and waited.

"I see they are letting you use your powers again," someone observed, speaking nearby and with a strong Russian accent. Charles was not sure that the speaker was addressing _him_ until he glanced around and saw that Azazel was in the process of slipping into conversation-distance.

"Ah—yes," Charles replied, somewhat belatedly. He had not thought it was polite to comment on such things; he still wasn't sure whether it was. "I really only had my telepathy blocked for the one meeting."

"Of course; I have not been here, since. But I am told you have not abused Magneto's trust." Azazel paused, and then added, with a crooked smirk, "As far as we know."

"No," the telepath agreed, cautiously. "There are other ways to bring about change without controlling people's minds."

"Yes, the city; your… 'Legacy.'" The teleporter showed a hint of teeth. "I think you are a fool. But… An honest one, perhaps."

Charles shifted in his chair, frowning. "Is that a compliment?"

"It may be," Azazel admitted. "And maybe it is good, just to have a new perspective in the Brotherhood, who is not only looking out for himself."

Quirking his lip, Charles remarked, "I don't think I'd go so far as to say that I'm in the Brotherhood. After all, I hardly agree with any of your central beliefs."

Behind him, Azazel's tail flicked dismissively. "You are here, and you are listened to, and that is enough. And since it does not look like you will be leaving—perhaps we should get to know each other more. Do you have the time for a drink?"

Charles' mouth went sharply dry with longing. Hard liquor—_any_ liquor—he hadn't had any since he'd been back in British Columbia, sitting in front of the fire with a stack of scholarly papers laid over his unfeeling legs, and if he truly _wasn't_ going to be leaving, a stiff drink or three would certainly help. But… "The _time_ isn't a problem," he said, and then cleared his throat delicately because he felt suddenly, again, like a _child_, having to ask permission for the things an adult took for granted.

"I don't know whether I'm allowed visitors," Charles confessed.

Azazel arched one of his frayed eyebrows. "That is unfortunate. Perhaps you could find out." Then he smiled, a little ironically, bowed his head to the geneticist, and—since the walls of the mansion blocked his powers just as surely as they did Charles'—walked away, his tail swaying undeterred by the declined invitation.

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**lxxvi.**

Erik leaned down to kiss Charles' forehead and paused with the geneticist's fingertips dimpling the skin of his throat; he pushed against them and they dug in further so he stopped and angled his eyebrows together quizzically, making a grunted noise of inquiry.

"None of that, for now," Charles said flippantly. "After all, I don't want to seem like a _whore_."

Erik pulled away and straightened, becoming shadowed as he left the narrow range of the single lamp he had flipped on with his powers when they'd entered Charles' rooms. He appeared chagrined. "I'd wondered whether that would come up."

Charles raised his eyebrows incredulously. "You'd _wondered_—? You didn't think that I'd be bothered by the fact that you've been casually indulging in my body and then felt secure enough in your ability to come back for more that you insulted my grudging tolerance for this deal?"

The other man watched him, motionlessly, until he bared his teeth in a wry, silent chuckle and glanced down at Charles' feet. "I assume an apology would not be appreciated at this point?" Erik asked.

"Are you going to tell me that you won't apologize because you always mean every word you say?" Charles guessed, tightening his fingers over the hand rests of his chair.

Erik glanced up at him, sidelong. "I admit my mistakes when I make them," he insisted, frowning when Charles scoffed. "I _do_. But I… Don't think you would believe me."

The telepath considered, briefly. "No, I'm not sure that I would—but you could at least go through the effort of trying."

Erik's lips curled into a thin smile; then he clasped his hands together in the small of his back and paced over to the lamp. It lit his skin up gold as he looked down into it and brought a hand forward again to trace along the top of the shade; the accordion fabric made a soft fluttering noise as his gloved finger pulled over the pleats.

He looked over to Charles; his expression was almost welcomingly calm except for the tension beneath his eyes. "You don't have to be a telepath to know someone, Charles. I might not have shared your dreams—" Charles, recalling what those dreams _were_, shifted uncomfortably— "or relived your childhood, but I know what drives you. I know the kind of person you want to be, and that makes it easy to hurt you."

Erik stalked toward the telepath, his hand raised before him; his features were obscured by darkness, the line of his mouth grim and brooding; Charles dropped his palms down to the rims of his wheels only to find them locked.

Charles squeezed his eyes closed as Erik's glove brushed his cheek, cool against his skin as Erik cradled his face. "I told you the things that I know you're trying to convince yourself aren't true. I gave your fears legitimacy by voicing them out loud," Erik said, and the lull of his words sounded less like an explanation than a recitation. Then, softly, he added, "You should know better than to doubt yourself."

Opening his eyes again, Charles stared up at him in helpless confusion, eyebrows knitted. "Why?" he asked.

Erik smiled sadly, leaning down as he stroked his thumb over the geneticist's cheekbone. "Because you're no less than the ideal you aspire to be."

Something sharp and jagged caught in Charles' throat, and he swallowed it with difficulty, dislodging Erik's hand from his face with a quick shake of his head. As the other man's fingertips trailed down his neck, Charles clarified, "No, _why_? Why try to—to hurt me at all? Why try to manipulate me when you probably could have—you might have just _asked_?"

Erik hooked his fingers around the gold chain and tugged Charles forward until there were mere centimeters between them. "Because it's too late for asking," he murmured, studying Charles with dark eyes.

Erik pulled on the chain until his lips brushed Charles' as he continued, "It was too late after I kissed you the first time." He huffed a laugh and it puffed over Charles' skin. "Or maybe not after the first time—but definite, certainly—" he swayed still closer, speaking against Charles now— "after the second."

He pressed into Charles, open-mouthed, and in that narrow space between them the telepath forgot—_cold shoulder, damn it_—and he almost thoughtlessly began to respond, parting his lips and tilting his face up except—except that Erik's knuckles on his throat prevented him from getting any closer and for a moment he hung frozen against Erik's mouth, breathing together through the places where they didn't quite touch.

Then Erik inhaled, slowly, and although there was no real pull on Charles he still felt as if something was being drawn out of him, kicking and scratching up from his lungs to be trapped between Erik's teeth as the other man moved away.

Erik stood, and Charles felt cold.

"It's not too late," Charles stated, and it sounded hollow to his ears.

There was a spasm of a smile; it just barely touched the corners of Erik's eyes. "I told you," he said, "I don't have your aspirations of greatness. I'm a monster, I know that, and most of the world would agree with me—we needed a monster, before, to accomplish what had to be done. The future I'm trying to build isn't meant for my kind, however; it's meant for people like _you_."

"Erik, if you're a monster, then it's only because you're acting like one," Charles commented.

Erik had been about to turn away, but now he snarled and _plunged_ forward, pinning Charles back into the chair with a hand on the geneticist's chest; the shock of it drove the air from his lungs and he began to gasp and then—stopped. Erik had pushed his face near again but now his teeth were bared and the skin around his eyes and nose furrowed with anger. "I don't _need_ your armchair psychology, _Charles_," he hissed.

Then he flung himself away and prowled over to the wall, staring at the painting of the mountain lake with his back to Charles. His hands were wound tightly together behind him, and the telepath watched as Erik's fingers clenched themselves bloodless—but he didn't know what to say to halt those digits' strangulation. _Oh, my old friend, what an endless mystery you are_.

Even as Charles thought it, however, Erik's shoulders lowered just the littlest bit and, slowly, the flesh of his hands returned to pink, if somewhat more flushed than usual. He turned, slightly, at the waist; looking at Charles from just beyond the edge of his helmet. "You can't make everything better, Charles. Now. What do you want so that you'll be happy again?"

_A time machine, maybe_, the telepath mused. Instead, he reached down to his wheels—found them unlocked once more—and angled himself to face Erik. He raised his chin. "Azazel invited me for a drink. I'd like to take him up on it."

"Azazel—?" Erik stepped, turning a little more, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward, briefly, before falling. "And what are you going to offer me in return?"

Charles swept his tongue along his bottom lip, then declared, "Nothing." Erik's eyes crinkled with amusement and he seemed ready to make a taunting remark, so Charles hurried quickly on, "Nothing except that, if you refuse, you never get to touch me again."

A predatory smile unfurled across Erik's face as he stalked forward. Charles held rigid as Erik circled around behind him; didn't flinch as the man's hands came down on his shoulders, the edges of his fingers framing Charles' neck. "That could set a dangerous precedent," he rumbled into the telepath's ear.

Erik leaned closer, until his mouth pressed into the hinge of Charles' jaw and his lips brushed the short hair there. "And anyway, I don't think you could stop me from breaking that bargain, if I wanted."

Charles' head wanted to turn but he stifled the impulse; he had to be still. For this to work, he couldn't show any fear—he shouldn't _have_ any fear, because… "You and I both know you wouldn't," Charles stated. "You might call yourself a monster, but there are still things you wouldn't do."

"Mm?" Erik mused; then one of the hands on Charles' shoulders moved to his hair and—shortened though it was—tangled into the strands and _yanked_. The telepath gasped, despite himself—it didn't hurt much but everything had _moved_—and the gold chain slipped into his mouth, clinking against his teeth and slithering over his tongue and Charles' eyes watered as he tried not to struggle, as cold metal caressed his tonsils and he thought, wildly, _not down the throat, please,_ not down the throat_, I will vomit _all over_ the place if you do that to me, see if I don't—_

Just as he was thinking of how it would be equally unpleasant to have his sinuses flossed, however, Erik released his hair and stepped back. Charles snapped forward and reached for his mouth but the chain was—was no longer a _chain_, it was _fused_ somehow, link to link in the grooves of his teeth, and he _couldn't close his jaw_—

The telepath glared at Erik, cheeks burning, probing at the rigid gold with his tongue and finger as the other man looked on with a nearly scientific indifference. Finally Charles, rather than face further embarrassment, covered his mouth with his hand and waited for Erik to grow bored with his manipulations.

Instead, Erik stepped over Charles' legs, crouched above him, and pried at the telepath's wrist until his hand fell away. Charles twisted his head down to his shoulder and Erik pinned him there with one hand; the other hovered just beyond Charles' mouth, and the geneticist wrinkled his nose and pulled back his lips to show his displeasure.

Erik ignored his defiance and traced his index finger over the bottom row of Charles' teeth, starting with the incisors and ending with a molar. Then he twisted his hand around and stroked the pad of his thumb along the slick interior of the geneticist's cheek, the callus rough against the delicate skin. "You couldn't stop me," he whispered, simply.

Charles couldn't speak, but he shook his head, as much as he was able, and made a sound deep his throat; Erik didn't let him up but the metal in his mouth shifted, became fluid again, and flowed like a living things as Charles said, thickly, "I wouldn't have to. You've changed, yes, but—_ack_—" He tipped his face down and tried to push the necklace out; for a brief moment it seemed like it was about to coil around his tongue, until Erik held up his hand and called it to him. It coiled bright and innocent in his glove and he wrapped his fist around it with finality.

The telepath tried to forget that it was there and continued, after licking his lips, "You've changed, but you wouldn't hurt me." He flashed his teeth in a nearly feral grin. "You've threatened me and shoved me around and tried to humiliate me, but you haven't yet forced me to do anything I didn't agree to."

Erik stared down at him, still holding him pinned; expression inscrutable. Charles met his gaze and tried not to blink, because for all that he'd said—it was _true_, yes, every bit of that was true, but _it could change at any second_ and he'd rather his first foray into sex with men _didn't_ begin in… Quite that way.

Then Erik shifted and looked almost—confused?—for a moment before his face hardened into something like a proud smile and—_thank goodness_—he pushed himself off of Charles. Wordlessly, he went to the couch and sank down into it; crossed one long leg over the other, booted foot dangling. He deposited the chain on the endtable.

"So," Erik began, a black humor suffusing the word. "I believe you wanted to go drinking with Azazel? Before I agree to anything, may I ask why?"

Charles, waiting for his pulse to slow, took in the other man's relaxed posture, the carefully balanced mixture of both stillness and the potential for motion, and had to admire Erik's control; the way in which he could so effortlessly move from his explosive rage to this watchful, elegant creature who studied him with glinting eyes. The telepath wondered whether that was something _he'd_ taught Erik.

He cleared his throat. "Well, it's been a while since I've had anything to drink, hasn't it?"

Erik's eyebrows twitched upward, then fell, slowly. "I could easily acquire a bottle of scotch for you."

Charles frowned at him. "That's not the point. Besides, you wanted me to work with you and your—_organization_—so if one of your senior officers extends his hospitality, shouldn't I oblige?"

The other man's smile was nearly a baring of teeth. "You do know that Azazel is Russian? He invites nearly everyone to drink."

"That's a generalization," Charles protested, with a sniff, "and anyway, maybe the Russians have the right of it. If you find you don't like the person you meet with, at least you can enjoy your liquor."

"It's not as simple as that," Erik explained, then uncrossed his legs and stood all in one smooth movement. He paused, poised, and continued, "Azazel is one of my officers for a reason; not just because he's been with me since the start. He could kill you easily."

"It must be nice, to have so much confidence in your underlings," the telepath remarked dryly. "Still, you know I'm not without my defenses."

Erik's eyes wrinkled with fondness. "Of course." Then he was moving; pacing again. The image of a cat sprang once more to Charles' mind, but this cat was caged: a fearsome, majestic beast circling the borders of its narrow concrete world for lack of anything better to do.

"I would rather not take the chance," Erik determined, at length. "Still, your challenge is… Formidable. I suppose that, to have any chance at all, I will at least have to consider the matter. You can't be alone with any of my officers."

"You can't be there looking over my shoulder, either," Charles objected.

"Was that part of the agreement?" Erik asked.

"New clause," the geneticist admitted.

"Very well, then. I'll arrange some social event so that you can drink with all the evil, human-hating mutants you want," Erik agreed, with a jauntily ironic tilt to his brow.

"You're going to throw a party?" Charles inquired, dubiously.

"Not a party. A… Soirée, perhaps," the other man corrected, stepping closer again. "Will that suit whatever your ulterior motive is?"

"Who said I wasn't just lonely and thirsty?" the telepath challenged, sweeping back his hair with his fingers. "To that end, however… Yes, I think so."

Erik's mouth curled into a smile, and he held out his hand. His voice, when he spoke, had dropped in pitch. "Will I get to touch you again?"

A line of searing ice shot down from the hollow of Charles' throat through to his navel; split at his groin and tickled the arches of his feet. He held himself still in the wake of it and instead extended his own hand. Erik caught his wrist gently between his fingers and lifted it up while he bent down, angled his head, and settled his lips against the veins beneath Charles' wrist. The edges of the helmet brushed over his skin and he could feel his heartbeat trapped between them.

Erik's fingers went loose around his arm and Charles began to lower it—stopped, and, tentatively, touched the pads of his fingers to Erik's mouth. The man's eyelids fluttered closed, the lashes long and dark against his pale skin, and Erik made no move to keep him there, only leaned into the contact a little, the stubble of his chin rough on Charles' hand.

Then Erik opened his eyes and Charles let his arm drop back to the chair. The air felt very close. "After," he asserted. He sounded hoarse to his own ears. "You can after."

Erik straightened. "I look forward to it," he promised, and Charles shivered again. The man looked toward the couch, considering. "I had thought we might play chess tonight. However—" he smirked crookedly— "it seems we already have."

He leaned down close to Charles' temple, stopped just short of touching him, and murmured, "Good night, Charles."

The geneticist watched him leave with a sinking feeling. On top of everything else, Erik was making chess jokes. How was he going to survive?

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	21. Chapter 21

Yay, longer update! I must apologize for the detour into OC-land that I go into in this chapter, and also because it's kind of a downer, but it's all part of the plot and I promise this is all going somewhere better! \o/

Thank you again to my beta, LJ user idioticonion!

**WARNING:** discussion of cancer in this chapter!

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><p>.<p>

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**lxxvii.**

"So I heard that Magneto is throwing a party!" Raven exclaimed the next night, throwing herself down onto his couch.

Charles winced. "I doubt it will be anything quite so cheerful as that."

His sister crossed her legs, a book pressed to her knee, and pouted primly. "You don't have to be such a wet blanket _all_ the time, you know."

He pursed his lips and shrugged; it was hard not to be, given the situation. That day, Beast had only been in the lab for a few minutes before running off to work in Engineering, and in that time Charles had probed his memories. Since the incident with the trash bin the telepath had taken to leaving the leonine scientist with a conscious drive to solve the problem of mutants with insensitivity to anesthetics, so he didn't need to remember their conspiracy in order to investigate.

Beast, however, hadn't yet managed to find an alternate way to get a hold of the drugs or any of their obvious precursors, so Charles had retreated from his head after propping up a little extra self-righteous determination to bolster what the genius already possessed in spades.

"It's just that most of these people don't seem like the celebratory type," Charles explained, and then added, "Besides, isn't it suppose to be a soirée?"

Raven rolled her eyes. "'Soirée,' Charles? _Really_? Well, you can take the man out of the tweed, but apparently you can't take the tweed out of the man. Anyway, can _you_ think of a group of people more reckless and irresponsible? I think not!"

"That's heartening. I hadn't been fearing for my life previously but I'm certainly considering it now," Charles replied with a grimace.

Shaking the book at him, Raven chided, "Oh, come on, don't be silly! It's not dangerous at all."

"Maybe I'm wrong," Charles commented dryly, "but don't people in this organization rise to power by _being_ powerful?"

Raven shrugged self-consciously. "To an extent, maybe. There are plenty of decent people who'll be there, though, and nobody'll try anything _too_ overt. I think Magneto's planning on going too, and everyone knows that he considers you a friend."

Charles' throat caught; then he swallowed and said, "He strangled me, you know. In front of everyone."

His adopted sister went still, but where he expected her to look shocked or outraged she instead nodded seriously; she was possibly even a little _embarrassed_, of all things. "Yes, I knew; but I told Magneto the same thing I told you, about hurting each other and how I would feel about that. Maybe this will offend your sensibilities, but… Charles, that really was just a slap on the wrist, comparatively."

"Raven, he cut off the blood flow to my brain until I _passed out_," Charles insisted, staring at her with furrowed brows.

She sighed and looked down at the book's cover, tracing her fingers beneath the cardboard without actually flipping it open. "Yes," she agreed, softly. "But it wasn't painful, and it didn't leave any lasting damage. Do you know what happened to the few other people who've learned Magneto's human name and dared use it to his face?"

Charles studied her face cautiously; her mottled yellow eyes were wide with sincerity. "What happened to them?" he asked, finally.

"I don't know," Raven answered, returning her gaze to the book. She opened it to the flyleaves and ran her fingers down their blank, weathered surfaces. Her skin was starkly indigo over the rust-mottled cream of the paper and together they made a sound like a sigh.

The geneticist worked the inside of his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment before stating, "That doesn't really make me feel any better about it."

Raven shrugged again and Charles saw it on her face when she pushed that part of the conversation out of her mind. "Well, anyway, it'll be interesting to see who all shows up. It's on such short notice! Five days really isn't enough time to prepare."

Charles kept his expression very carefully neutral as he commented, "I should think it would be very easy for you to choose something to wear."

She smiled brightly; a sudden surprised smile like he'd done something unexpected; and Charles realized that it was because, although he'd technically been referring to her recent habit of running about unclothed, he had also just inadvertently complimented her mutation. He experienced a twinge of guilt that this was not something he would have thought to do on purpose.

"Sure, I mean, I can just _make_ whatever dress I want," Raven acknowledged, "but when I try to design my own they just look like burlap sacks, although I'm getting better. I need to look through some magazines and find something nice. Anyway, that's why I'm here tonight—Magneto recommended that I come spend some time with you since he's busy with the plans and invites and such."

"Fair enough," Charles agreed, since really it would have been awkward to sit across from Erik just then, knowing that the man was waiting until _after_, possibly imagining what he would do and—_let's face it_, he thought—Charles would probably spend much of the time appraising Erik in turn and that would be… Less than helpful.

"So what do you want to do?" Raven asked him, tapping the book on her knee. She paused and glanced down at it. "Oh! I could read to you!"

Charles froze, and Raven rushed to explain, "I mean, maybe that's a little strange, but you know you always read to _me_ and I can do all the voices…"

"No, no, it's all right, Erik does—" The geneticist choked to a stop and said instead, "You can do the voices? That's quite marvelous."

"Charles, don't think you can flatter me into changing the subject," Raven admonished, leaning forward eagerly. "Were you about to say that Erik _reads_ to you?"

Charles searched for an alternate explanation, but his mind had chosen that moment to go absolutely, utterly blank, and so it was without protest that Raven exclaimed, "I _knew_ it! I knew there was _some_thing going on between you two."

Folding his hands together primly over his thigh, Charles arched an eyebrow and remarked, "We have similar tastes in literature. There aren't usually multiple copies of the same book so it's simply… More efficient, if one of us reads aloud."

Raven guffawed, a loud rude noise. "_What_? Oh, you are so _full_ of it!"

"I'm telling the truth," Charles insisted coolly.

"Yes, I can see it now: you were both sitting there reading and you looked over and said—" her voice dropped in pitch and Charles was startled to hear _his_ voice, low and seductive— "'_Why Erik, my friend, whatever are you reading? It looks very…_ Groovy.'" Her voice deepened further and, despite what must surely have been a visible flush of red to Charles' face—or perhaps because of it—she replied to herself using Erik's long vowels and neatly clipped consonants: "'_Alas, Charles, I have only the one copy, but if you'd like I could… _Read_ it to you._'"

"Stop it," Charles muttered, cheeks burning. "It wasn't like that."

Raven looked about to gloat, but she took a last glance at him as she opened her mouth and then settled back down into the couch. "Whoa. Okay. I didn't realize it was such a touchy subject. I'll just leave the book here when I go?"

The telepath cleared his throat and told her, "No, it's all right. You can read."

His adoptive sister raised her eyebrows doubtfully. "Are you sure?"

"I'd like you to," Charles urged, smiling so that his eyes wrinkled up in the way he knew women found charming.

Raven shook her head once, slowly, puffed air from her cheeks, and propped open the book. "Okay, if you say so." Then she mumbled to herself, "Really, just kiss the guy and get it over with."

Charles frowned at her and she fluttered her eyelashes at him innocently before looking back down to read, "One. '_It was the last letter in Irene Redfield's little pile of morning mail. After her other ordinary and clearly directed letters the long envelope of thin Italian paper with its almost illegible scrawl seemed out of place and alien…_'"

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**lxxviii.**

Over the next few days, Charles was somewhat surprised to find that Erik stuck to his word; he never touched the geneticist once, not even accidentally.

This did not mean that Erik left him in peace: every long slow reach of Erik's hand toward the chessboard; every time that his index and middle fingers closed to either side of a piece, pinching the soapstone between his knuckles while the pad of his thumb smoothed over the head of the knight, the pawn, the bishop—it was positively _distracting_.

Charles had found himself about to open his mouth and scold Erik for—for what? Touching the chess pieces in the same way he'd _always_ manipulated them? And anyway, the moment that he looked up to say it, Erik's eyes had flickered to meet his and they'd glittered with dark amusement above a smirk that suggested Erik knew _exactly_ what sort of effect his mere existence had upon the telepath.

So Charles had exhaled silently through his nose, kept an eye on the elegant angle of Erik's wrist as he made his move, and almost before the other man's fingers had even left the pawn Charles leaned forward to give his response. Their hands did not brush.

Despite this—despite the fact that Charles now found himself lying in bed staring up at the ceiling until it blurred to gray, his hand groping blindly for the waistband of his boxers—Charles tried to keep in good spirits. He had successfully bargained some breathing space from Erik, after all, and even if it was only temporary, then, well… There were worse fates than living in luxury and being sexually pleasured by a handsome, powerful man. There were many people out there, Charles knew, who would hate him for his ingratitude.

And really, it weren't as if he had no hope—Charles had been tempted, briefly, to leave Beast's memories alone; to let him go on wondering whether Charles was a collaborator even as he searched innocently around for a solution for their plot. That, however, seemed like a slippery slope to tread on, and so Charles found himself again in Beast's office. Really, only the first time had been difficult; now the choice was easy.

"No luck yet," the leonine scientist informed him, and it was not surprising news. For all that there were many sympathizers in amidst the rational ranks of the scientists, few were willing to risk the Brotherhood's ire even for something as apparently harmless as acquiring experimental sedatives for a fellow principle investigator.

Charles sighed and it went on for a long time. When the last of the air had left his lungs he inhaled again, gathered his words to himself, and said, "Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe that would be more unrest than the world needs right now."

Beast tilted his head down and gave him a _look_ from over his glasses. "Professor, Magneto is a _tyrant_. He orchestrated the razing of Argentina and the burning of thirty nuclear fission plants. He personally took part in the invasion of major rivers by nuclear-powered submarines and the release of their reactors. His organization enforces mandatory human labor at minimal wages in unsafe work environments. You can't tell me that someone like that should remain in charge."

Charles fidgeted with his lab coat sleeve where it had drawn up over the cuff of his shirt. How could he claim that it was more complicated than that without seeming like exactly the sort of person Beast thought him to be when he forgot the things they did together? _Because then I would be_, he reminded himself, _and that's half the trouble._ "Perhaps not, no. But right now we at least have the _semblance_ of order, and Erik seems willing to compromise."

Pulling his lips tight against the bristle of his teeth, Beast replied, "Are you listening to yourself? Charles, you should know better than anyone not to trust Magneto—look at what he did to you, and what he made your sister into! We trusted him and he learned everything he needed from us before turning that knowledge against us. Any apparent compromise, I'm sure, comes at the cost of a worse crime. It's like entropy: you might see an increase in order on a small scale, but in the end chaos wins out."

The telepath hesitated because, yes, he had trusted Erik before, but… Well, it was a bit of a stretch to call it a mere difference of opinion at this point, wasn't it? "That may be true, but what happens once Erik's gone?"

"We're not alone," Beast answered. "Out in the rest of the world, even here in the manor—you might be surprised by how many followers you could have, if you asked for them."

Charles scoffed, then quieted as he saw that Beast was being serious. "What—_me_—oh, no, I would be a _terrible_ leader! I'm only a geneticist, anyway—what would anyone want with me?"

"But, Professor, you're _not_ merely a geneticist to everyone out there—you're a _hero_! You're a hero and a martyr and they believe that you're going to come back and save us all," Beast insisted, leaning forward in his desk chair. His yellow eyes glinted with eagerness and Charles felt a wave of horrified pity; here was one of the most reliable, rational men he knew, and he thought—_god_, he thought that Charles was some kind of savior!

"I'm not that person," Charles protested urgently. "Beast, I'm—I'm just a scientist, a teacher at most, and _I surrendered_! They have to hate me. I surrendered; I'm _responsible_ for Erik's success."

"That may be," Beast acknowledged, pinning the telepath's gaze with his own. "You might not be that person, in reality—but for them, you have to be. The anti-extinctionists all, deep down, believe that you're the only one who can take down Magneto, since you helped to make him who he is. You have to be able to do that, or maybe no one will."

"But I'm not…" Charles repeated, weakly. He paused, exhaling slowly with his fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose. He drew his eyebrows tightly together and pronounced, "All right; if you can get me the drugs, then I will at least make the attempt."

"Good," Beast confirmed, removing his glasses and polishing them with a small cloth meant for microscope lenses. He didn't look up from this as he continued, "I'll do my best to fulfill my part of the deal, and then…" His fierce yellow eyes darkened as he lifted them to Charles' face. "You said yourself that it will be difficult to handle the Brotherhood once Magneto is out of the way, even without needing to work around a prisoner. You may want to reconsider your willingness to spare his life."

Charles lifted his chin and stated, "I'll do whatever I think is best when it comes to it."

The leonine scientist scrutinized him as if waiting to see if he might change his mind, then nodded and asked, "So how is your research going?"

And it was going well, really; Charles had no reason to complain on that front. He'd been given the task of comparing the products of some of the known human genes to their counterparts in mutants, and it was something that intrigued him. He worried, of course, that the knowledge could be used to test for humans, should those proteins prove significantly different—but ultimately, even the Brotherhood lacked the resources to distribute any such test, once formulated.

Of course, they had yet to _find_ anything so distinctive—they hardly knew anything about human proteins, let alone their mutant counterparts, and nearly all of them were bound to be identical. They might even find that there were a whole spectrum of mutations; in fact it seemed _likely_ that many humans would share some number of mutant features at the cellular level without any change in their apparent phenotype.

The results would be interesting, to say the least.

Charles returned to his workstation to find himself alone except for a note nestled between the rapidly accumulating detritus of his work. "_There is a pH gel for you in the clean fridge_," it read, in Hannah's nearly vowelless handwriting.

The geneticist curled his lips down into a bemused curve and went back out into the main part of the lab, pushing a chair out of his way to get into the fridge. He opened the door and cold air caressed the arch of his cheekbones; sure enough, there was a little glass tray wrapped up next to his tray of chilled reagents. Charles lifted it carefully and the fragile blue gel, still wet from its creation, slid alarmingly—he imagined it slipping out through the plastic and flopping onto the floor, so he tipped the tray back quickly; it slithered back the other direction and pressed against the palm of his hand, clammy through the double layers of wrap and glove but quite safe.

He closed the refrigerator door and heard it lock shut as it labored to cool itself back down to four degrees Celsius.

Charles balanced the tray carefully as he made his way back to the room—he was almost more cautious, in fact, than he had been carrying the flask of LB broth. The broth, after all, could be mopped up and the glass shoveled into a bin, but the gel—no longer than his palm, only a centimeter deep and carefully partitioned by pH—represented a few hour's worth of time spent waiting for it to solidify and then form an even gradient.

Charles, in fact, had yet to actually make one of his own; this was the first he'd ever handled and although the theory was simple enough, the practical application was very new. The electrophoresis device—nothing more elaborate than a dish of liquid with a positive current on one end and a negative on the other—would draw the proteins toward the oppositely-charged electrode until they reached an acidity—or alkalinity—at which their total charge was precisely zero.

At that point every protein would stop moving; if the mutant protein stopped at a different point than the human version, then they would know to pay more attention to that gene and perhaps purify enough of its product to analyze its structure with x-ray crystallography. Courtesy of the engineers they now had the advantage of having computers advanced enough to perform some of those calculations, but the actual process of forcing a protein to crystallize had not gotten any easier and they wanted to avoid that where possible.

_The world of science is changing_, Charles mused, feeling his throat tighten with equal parts awe and nostalgia. _Well. Hopefully it will be for the better._ Although, if what Beast had said was true—and it certainty seemed that way, judging by the names of the labs on the publications Charles had been reading—then "the world of science" was rather severely limited to the fewer than two hundred scientists living and working in the Brotherhood's stronghold.

The geneticist reached up to a shelf and retrieved a shallow glass dish, shaped like a very square saddle and pierced on either side by an electrode—the gel electrophoresis device. He set it down on the table next to its power supply box and gingerly lowered the rectangle of stiff, jellied sugars onto the central platform. It slid again, but Charles nudged it back into place before it could go far.

There was a flask of pre-mixed buffer sitting next to the bottle of salts he would otherwise have used to make his own; Charles paused, fingers outstretched—it wasn't labeled with _**don't touch**_, so there was no reason to think that he couldn't use it… Except that the jar hadn't been there yesterday and it obviously wasn't _his_, so…

Frowning, the telepath closed his hand around the neck of the flask and brought it down to his level. He was already running somewhat late; too much longer, and the gel would lose its neat gradient of low to high pH. He could replace the solution, if Hannah needed it for herself—which she probably _did_, because why would she spend extra time making materials for his research when she could have been doing her own? It wasn't as if she'd ever shown any pity for him, certainly.

Charles mentally shrugged as he poured the buffer solution into each side of the tray until it just barely met over the surface of the gel; then he backed out from his table and turned to head back out into the lab. His colleague _did_ practically live in that room, after all, and even waiting for one's _own_ test tubes to centrifuge could make for a long and dull evening.

He reached the negative-twenty freezer, opened the door, and stared numbly at the metal racks full of white, frost-encrusted boxes—then Charles remembered dimly that, if he was going to have his protein samples out, he ought to retrieve some ice to set them on so that they didn't decay. Or maybe—well, it was a moot point; in his indecision, Charles' hand had pushed the door closed again and tugging on it reminded him that, oh yes, the doors _locked_ when the temperature inside changed.

Anyway. He needed ice, first.

Charles attempted to remember where the ice machine was—failed—then realized with a huff that he was a _telepath_, after all, and he didn't _need_ to remember; he fumbled for the knowledge, feeling smooth around the other scientist's minds like a handful of river stones, and knew: the ice was in past the autoclaves.

So he left, again, and went out into the hallway; down to the swinging metal doors with the yellow stains of damp creeping out from beneath them. Charles pushed through with the footrests of his chair, hoping absently that there would be ice buckets by the machine so that he didn't have to make the trip again, and that the ice wouldn't be _too_ clumped up…

Charles paused, his hands ready on the rims of his wheels, tensed and immobile. He had heard something, over the dragon's breath of the autoclaves—a muffled clattering noise.

It came again and he realized that it was the sound of someone coughing.

Slowly, Charles moved forward, toward a different door than the one he now knew contained the ice machine; toward the room where the biosafety hoods sat closed and sterile. The perfect place to go, really, if someone was going to spew contagions into the environment; the hoods were air-tight when closed and of course they would be, if such a person had a mind to be considerate.

As he crept level with the open door, the telepath peeked in and confirmed what a light mental brush had told him. Hannah stood hunched between her bony shoulders, shuddering with the tightly controlled spasms of her ribs. She was out of her lab coat, and a more clinical part of Charles realized that he had never seen her without before; and unlike the rest of the female scientists, who wore pants because they had to, he suspected that she did not change into anything looser when she returned to whatever place she rested in at night.

Perhaps she had heard him, or she might have been about to pace around, but she half-turned and froze as she saw him, her eyes huge and guilty over the shadows of her skin, translucent in the harsh white lighting. The lab coat was bundled in her hands where she held its sleeve submerged in a jar of yellow-tinged fluid; Charles smelled the frayed tang of bleach heavy in the humid air, but she had not yet been there long enough to dissolve the drops of blood soaked into the white fabric.

He gazed at her coolly and remarked, "You might want to see somebody about that cough."

The cell biologist blinked, dazed, and attempted a smile with one side of her face. "I don't think so," she replied.

Charles raised his eyebrows at her, but remained otherwise immobile—he kept his shoulders relaxed, his hands down at his sides, and didn't raise his voice much beyond what it took to be heard over the rattle of the dysfunctional autoclave in the room behind him. "Is that because you already know what's wrong, or because the doctor would find out that you're human?"

Her eyes had been wide before, but now they almost started from her head. For a moment her face was taunt with denial; then, as she took in the telepath's carefully composed calm, she let her breath out in a long slow sigh and looked at him appraisingly. "Did you read my mind?" she asked.

'No," Charles denied, with a short shake of his head. "Or at least, not on purpose; it's easily the first thing I sense about someone."

"So you've always known," Hannah observed, leaning against a hood. She kept the sleeve dipped into the jar of bleach.

"Essentially," the geneticist agreed. "Empathy is difficult to prove and a good thing to claim if you don't want people to know you don't really have a mutation, but it's fairly obvious to a telepath."

"Ah, but there you're wrong," Hannah corrected, showing her teeth. She tapped her sternum. "I do have a mutation; it's just not in _all_ of my cells."

"Then you know that you probably don't have much time," Charles stated. "Why delay treatment if there's a chance you might live?"

The cell biologist gave a voiceless chuckle that turned into another cough, then began, quietly, "You know, I always wanted to be like Maud Menten when I grew up. I wanted to be this woman who did all the things people said she couldn't do and changed the world of science." Hannah seemed about to breathe deeply, then thought better of it; instead, she crossed one of her ankles over the other and settled more firmly against the hood.

"I spent my entire time in university struggling to be taken seriously; if my professors thought that I was serious at all then it was because I was just some headstrong anti-man fool, and the only work they'd give me was to clean up the lab and mix the stock solutions." She crooked up a corner of her mouth, and continued, wryly, "Well, I started reading everyone's lab notes when they went home at night and within a year I finished this professor's project almost by myself. Things changed pretty fast after that."

"And you know, I only just about had my thesis done when civilization ended. All that work, all that sleep deprivation, and I never even got to be a scientist," Hannah said. She swirled the coat sleeve around in the bleach a little; the stain was already lifting out. "Until I came here, everywhere I went it was just—'_survival of the species, survival of the species, do your womanly duty!_'—and, well, I might be in with the wolves now, but science doesn't take sides and I've already made more contributions to the field than I'd ever thought possible. More than Maud ever did, in less time."

Charles nodded politely, and then pointed out, "It's going to be difficult to do science once you're dead."

Hannah pursed her lips. "It'll be difficult to do science once I'm _human_. At least I'm doing good here; good that will last into the future."

"Perhaps, but you'll be _dead_," Charles repeated. "Isn't having any future at all better than that?"

"Do you know how much research has been done on cancer since the mutants took over?" Hannah asked, looking out at him from beneath her eyebrows. Then she carefully shaped the word, "_None_. Absolutely none; the drugs available today are the same indiscriminate poisons we had on our shelves four years ago. There's no profit in saving human lives."

"They might still work," Charles insisted. "It might not be too late."

"It is," the cell biologist told him. "And anyway, chemotherapy drugs are a regulated substance; only humans need them, so there aren't any stocked here."

The geneticist frowned. "Regulated?" he inquired.

"To stop people like me from taking honest mutant jobs," Hannah explained, with a lopsided shrug. "Just about everything's toxic to us, now; it's a surprisingly effective policy."

"That's…" Charles stared at her as if she might reveal that she'd been mocking him. "That's _inhumane_."

"I believe that's kind of the point," she remarked, dryly. "Anyway. There are plenty of other good drugs downstairs that I can take when I need to." His colleague stirred the lab coat's sleeve around the jar of bleach a last time before withdrawing it, touching it to the edge of the glass to drain out the remaining bleach, and then moving to the sink to rinse the fabric under the faucet, her back to him.

As he watched her scapula shift beneath the fabric of her blouse, Charles realized with a shiver of horror that all of the things he had noticed about her body before—thin, pale, bruised from lack of sleep—they weren't the signs of a more dedicated science, as he'd first assumed; they were the marks of chronic illness. Although, in way he supposed that they were related.

The geneticist cleared his throat, anchoring himself in the grind of his vocal cords, but it did not help him find the right words to say as he began, "I…"

Hannah's eyes darted sharp and bright over the jut of her shoulder, and he remembered again that this was the same woman who'd outdone her scientific hero after fewer than four years of work. He had to give her the respect of assuming that she'd already weighed her values and made an informed decision. Still… Perhaps Charles couldn't—well, _wouldn't_—change her mind, but if the _situation_ changed…

"You knew all this time that I was human and you never treated me any different," Hannah was saying, wringing her lab coat out over the sink without looking at it. Her hands were sluggish with distraction.

Charles blinked. "Why would I? And anyway, you never treated me any differently either."

"Didn't I?" Hannah asked. "You're a telepath, you're in a chair, and you're _Charles Xavier_, the man who once turned entire armies around with a thought." Before Charles could protest that the last part simply wasn't true, she continued, "I couldn't have treated you more differently if I'd tried."

The telepath's eyebrows steepled helplessly and he bit the smile out of his lower lip before remarking, "…_Well_. Thank you for your honestly, then. Does it help to know that it's how I would have chosen to be treated?"

She shrugged self-consciously.

"Come on back to the lab, then," Charles coaxed, beckoning. "All this scientific progress isn't going to make itself."

Hannah stepped forward cautiously, then with more assurance as he backed out of the door. Charles smiled up at her warmly, thinking to himself that he'd found his muse again.

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**lxxix.**

There was almost something of a bounce to Erik's step as he strode into Charles' rooms.

"The get-together is tomorrow," he proclaimed. "You'll be able to have as many drinks as you like with anyone you want."

"Yes, I'm sure you're very excited about my burgeoning social life," Charles stated. "I heard that you would be in attendance as well? Remember that I stipulated that there would be no standing over my shoulder."

"I'll be otherwise occupied," Erik replied, his voice deepening to a growl as he added, "My attention is highly sought after."

"It must be terrible to be so loved," Charles mused as Erik sank down onto his couch.

"I don't like these people," he said, baring his teeth with distaste. "These… _Politicians_. Not a one of them would talk to me if they didn't think it would benefit themselves."

Charles pursed his lips. "Is that so."

Erik's eyes snapped up to the telepath's face. "Is something bothering you?"

"I don't know, Erik," Charles answered, wearily. "But it seems like every time I start to think that maybe you're redeemable, that maybe I could find some defense for you, I find out about some new atrocity done in your name."

Erik went still; the muscles in his throat tightened into visibility for a moment before fading again. "And what is it that I've done this time?"

"Did you know that chemotherapy drugs are a controlled substance?" Charles asked. Erik was silent, studying him mutely, so Charles repeated, "Did you know?"

"Yes," Erik admitted, finally. "But they're not illegal."

"No, not illegal—just tracked and monitored while nitrogen mustard is sold on the black market by people who care more about money than whether or not they're poisoning their patients," Charles elaborated, flicking his consonants like hail.

"Nobody should be buying from the black market," Erik explained, frowning. "They're as inexpensive as we could make them. I saw to that."

"Yes, well, isn't that convenient for all those sick humans," Charles bit. "I'm sure they're all appropriately grateful that the potentially lifesaving drugs they require because of the illnesses you gave them cost only a _fraction_ of their yearly wage, considering the sort of work they can get once everyone knows they aren't mutant."

"That's a problem only freelancers have," the other man corrected, his eyebrows drawn tightly together. "Humans who choose not to work for the Brotherhood don't receive the same protections, and anyway, if they're trying to pass as mutant then they—"

"What, then they deserve everything that happens to them?" Charles inquired. "Because that's the whole point, isn't it? To weed humans out of mutant society?"

"Charles, that's not…" Erik began, looking pained.

"You can't tell me that wasn't your goal," Charles pointed out. "You couldn't have thought that you were just going to flood the atmosphere with radioactive smog and then all the non-mutants would quietly drop over dead after popping out some mutated babies. You can't say that this isn't what you wanted."

"I didn't know _what_ I wanted," Erik replied, softly; his voice had lost all of its gravel. For a moment he looked almost… _Vulnerable_, but Charles decided not to allow him that leniency.

"If you had second thoughts about committing genocide, now isn't the time to wish that maybe you'd thought a little harder," the geneticist commented.

Erik's gaze sharpened as he lifted his head fractionally. "As the ruler of this new world, I can't afford to have any doubts."

"Go ahead, then," Charles urged. "Explain to me how right it was to condemn humanity to a slow, agonizing death."

"I…" Erik's eyes were wide, cornered; then he blinked and drew his chin in. The arm that he draped over the back of the couch, however, was just a little too tense to sell his nonchalance completely. "Given how passionate you suddenly are, I take it that your interest in this subject is more than hypothetical?"

Charles' fingers curled around his armrests. "Excuse me?"

"I assume that you wouldn't have found out about this if you didn't know someone who was affected by it," Erik clarified, his eyes glittering in the shadows of his helmet.

"I never implied anything of the kind," Charles protested, furrowing his brow.

The man tilted his head as he examined the telepath. "Someone's relative, perhaps? No, they must work here, if they're so worried about their identity."

Charles matched his stare evenly. "I don't need a personal angle in order to care, Erik."

The ghost of a smile twitched onto Erik's face. "Of course you don't—but I think you have one."

Charles adopted his sternest expression, warning, "_Erik_…"

The other mutant sighed and tipped his head down; he glanced to his lap and then looked sidelong at Charles. "I could give you the drugs," Erik offered.

The geneticist gaped at him. "What?"

"For the human you aren't personally acquainted with. I could supply them to you."

Charles' mouth worked silently—Hannah probably didn't have much time and treatment wasn't very effective; if he could get it to her _now_ then maybe she would live, except… Except… He took a deep, shuddering breath. She would probably not appreciate it if Charles confirmed her existence to the leader of the Brotherhood. There were not, after all, very many people whom Charles associated with on a regular basis.

"Making an exception for someone I might know doesn't make you any better in my eyes," Charles replied at last.

"I don't care about that," Erik insisted, urging, "Just accept my offer, Charles. I don't care if you think I'm trying to bribe you—this wasn't supposed to _happen_."

"Then why did you allow that law to go into effect?" Charles asked.

"I didn't—" Erik caught himself and looked away. Silence stretched between them; then a muscle in the other man's cheek twitched and he turned back, jaw set with determination. "I can't give you a satisfying explanation."

"Then reverse it," Charles demanded.

Erik stared at the telepath uncomprehendingly.

"Reverse the law," Charles repeated. "If you're really that upset with its applications—if you really want to be a better person, if you want _me_ to think that you are—then get rid of it."

Charles caught a glimpse of Erik's lower teeth as his mouth hung open somewhere between speech and sigh; then the man gave a slight, abrupt shake of his head. "I can't; they'll think—the rest of the Brotherhood—they already believe that I'm going soft."

"Then so be it," the geneticist declared with a flick of his hand. "Go soft. Or, maybe, grow a spine and fight back against these politicians you claim to dislike so much."

Erik's eyes shined out at him unblinkingly; his eyebrows pressed low and his lips were a thin line. He held himself perfectly still, coiled on top of the cushions like a snake or—perhaps—a spring: movement stored in linear shape.

Charles' breath evaporated water cold from the inside of his lip in short little gusts; he almost didn't dare exhale at all, in case the direction Erik finally sprang was toward _him_—because it really seemed uncertain, right then. It wouldn't have been the first time Erik snapped.

_How does he go so long without blinking_? Charles wondered, as he felt his own eyes drying out.

Erik blinked, finally, shifting his gaze over Charles' face as his shoulders relaxed. His fingers stroked over the back of the couch, absently, and he looked away to the dark window. "I'll consider it," he agreed, voice rough.

Charles waited for the triumph to settle into his chest, but what came to him was only a thin and bitter anxiety, shifting restlessly around his ribs. He didn't know if this was a victory; if Erik would really follow through or if he were simply avoiding the conversation. He didn't know if this was progress.

Charles supposed he would have to wait to find out.

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	22. Chapter 22

Hi! Wow, not sure why this took so long. Anyway! After this, the plot should pick up pace I think? And start actually making sense! Oh, and, a little spoiler: the next time Charles and Erik meet, after this... There is sex. Finally! \o/

PS: I'm flying out to California next week; I'm not sure how it will affect my update schedule, and hopefully it won't too much, but I thought I'd warn you! :)

Beta'd by the continually amazing idioticonion, on LJ.

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**lxxx.**

Delicate trinkling piano music played, twining circles around the low murmuring of the guests. English was not the only language spoken by any means, and those half-familiar voices contributed to a grand incomprehensible flow of dialog that seemed, in a way, almost an expressionistic painting meant to convey the idea of conversation, if not the sense of it.

The ballroom was long and open and although the white plaster ceiling hung well out of reach—except, of course, for a few extraordinarily tall mutants—the comparative width of the space gave it a certain disproportional looming quality. Thick white curtains interrupted the red wallpaper at every entrance and the merrily sparkling lights above dangled down entirely too close on little brass stalks.

Charles cared far more about where, exactly, they were hiding the alcohol; he could _see_ it, in glasses the guests held onto with entirely too little reverence: whiskey and wine, fluted glasses of champagne and brandy in snifters. The Brotherhood, apparently, was not so straight-laced that its members turned their noses up at good spirits, and if there was one thing that remained in abundance after the destruction of the world's infrastructure, it was fermenting plant material. The only problem was that Charles wasn't sure where they were getting it from and nobody seemed about to take mercy on him.

"So you see, I really don't care for the direction Magneto is taking us," a smarmy dignitary lectured on in a nasally voice, crowded up to the wheelchair and close enough that Charles could smell the odor of mothballs coming off of his double-breasted suit. The man's wife stared at Charles with a grimly polite smile stretching her lips; she had a mink-lined coat trapped in the crook of her arm. Maybe the mothballs were from that, instead…

_No reason they can't both smell like mothballs_, Charles thought to himself, and aloud agreed with a vague, "Sure."

The dignitary gestured with his champagne, dislodging a flurry of bubbles from the sides of the neglected glass. "It's just that he doesn't seem very solution-orientated these days, you know?"

Charles nodded, scanning the crowd around them for familiar faces; Azazel, maybe, or Raven, or… Well, Azazel and Raven were really the only people he knew, except for Emma Frost, whom he could sense nearby but did not especially wish to speak to. For that reason, and the gold chain around his neck, Charles kept grudgingly within the confines of his own skull—at least, as much as he could manage; the plethora of un-shielded thoughts hung around him like the strings of brightly-colored balloons, dangling their strings invitingly. It was difficult not to peek at _all_.

The dignitary smiled at him, showing the yellowed borders of his teeth; his eyes glittered with calculation. "I knew you of all people would understand my position, Mr. Xavier."

"Professor," Charles corrected, glancing back briefly before looking around again. There was a knot of people clustered beyond several smaller groups of socializing mutants—really, the sheer genetic diversity on display was amazing!—and it was difficult to pick through their faces and shoulders for anyone he recognized.

"Of course," the dignitary replied smoothly, and continued, "And you know, this government really is becoming alarmingly secular—we shouldn't have let the Communists have so much influence in our politics, they insist on incorporating their ideas into _everything_…"

"Mm," Charles grunted. There were a couple people over there that he remembered from the Brotherhood meetings; the Minister of Agriculture was laughing in sudden nervous bursts over his wine, evidently over something that—ah, yes, that was Infrared—was telling another mutant, who was standing next to…

Erik's eyes met his as soon as Charles recognized the elegant line of his nose, the slope of his shoulders. His smile had seemed stiff and perfunctory even across the room but now it smoothed into something more genuine. Beneath Charles' hands, the metal of his chair thrummed, for a moment, like a subliminal purr, and he felt something entirely different _flutter_ between his ribs—

"Granted, I don't think the Reds are to blame for _all_ of it," the dignitary droned on. Charles' attention wavered as he looked from the dignitary and back to Erik, but the Brotherhood's leader had gone back to his conversation—apparently taking his promise not to hover seriously.

"Is that so," Charles remarked, forcing his voice steady.

"Yes, well, I heard from a very reliable source that _he_—" the dignitary pointed toward Erik with his champagne— "is Jewish, and, well, of course I don't care about _that_, but I don't think he's even religious! You won't hear _him_ thank God in his speeches, and the thought that this _Godlessness_ goes right up to the top—!"

"When I was ten years old," Charles interrupted, pinning the dignitary with his scrutiny, "I looked up the definition of 'atheist' in the dictionary and I've been one ever since. Now, I do hope you enjoy that fine champagne you're holding."

Without lingering to catalog the stages of the dignitary's shock, Charles backed away, turned, and then pushed at the rails of his wheels until he was alone again. Except—except he wasn't _really_ alone; he was surrounded by all these _people_, and he'd been correct when he'd told Raven that he didn't think that this would be anything quite so enjoyable as a party.

Charles could feel it in the air as he pushed his fingers up over his eyes; these weren't people who liked each other. Rather, they had rushed here however they could—by air, by train, through teleportation—simply to wallow together in their misery and ambition, clawing at the rungs of the social ladder. The fact of it clung to the walls, the curtains, and the glowing lamps above like an oily slick of venom.

"You look like you're having fun," Badger said, and Charles dropped his hands from his face to see—well, he had _seen_ the uniforms before—the dark red tunics and charcoal trousers—but he had thought that they were only worn by—

"Badger, are you an _officer_? In the Brotherhood's army? How—What _rank_ are you?" Charles demanded, peering at her in shock because yes, she was definitely in full dress, and he was pretty sure that people frowned upon wearing uniforms fraudulently.

The erstwhile physical therapist picked at her tunic with the hand that wasn't holding a mostly-empty snifter, grimacing at the ribbon bars and shoulder insignia—the former awfully numerous and the latter invisible to Charles from his angle. "Damn, you know, I don't even remember what any of this stuff _means_," she told him.

"And the physical therapy?" Charles asked, frowning.

Badger shrugged. "I have strange hobbies. Anyway, the more pressing issue is that you look tragically sober, and really, these sorts of events are _intolerable_ without a little alcohol to free up your schadenfreude."

"And what sort of event would you call this?" Charles inquired. "I've heard a variety of terms used—'soirée,' 'party,' 'get-together…'"

Pursing her lips together thoughtfully, Badger peered around at the guests before declaring, "Funeral."

Charles' eyebrows jumped. "Not literally, I hope?"

"Nah," Badger dismissed. "Not this time; wrong sort of crowd. Now, here, see those tables over there? Go find an empty one, sit tight, and I'll come back with something to drink."

"Scotch, if I get a choice," Charles called after her, and she waved an acknowledgement back over her shoulder. Then he went and found an empty table—hardly anyone was sitting, since the entire point of the evening, for everyone else, was to be _seen_ socializing—and pulled one of the plush-cushioned chairs out of the way so that he could sit in its place.

Charles looked around at the gathered mutants—for, certainly, there were no humans hiding _here_—and allowed himself to marvel; to forget, for a moment, who they were. Many of their mutations—like those possessed by the dignitary and his wife, and Charles himself—were invisible, but some were rather spectacularly on display as points of pride. There was a green-skinned woman whose dress covered her breasts and then split around her midriff to display translucent frosted-glass skin and queasily shifting organs beneath; a man's fingers and toes stretched long between the rumbled folds of webbing; a young lady's hair lay draped in hazy suspension on colorful sparks of power as she drifted along on the arm of an older man.

They weren't _all_ bad people, of course; case in point, there was Badger - then again, it seemed as if he knew even less about her than he'd thought.

Charles decided that he _really_ hated those helmets.

But then, not all telepaths were as lovable as Charles. Exhibit A: Emma Frost, slinking toward him even now, her cape of arctic fox fur twitching around her ankles as if it still remembered how to live.

"Charles," she crooned, all saccharine charm. "Deigning to rub your elbows with the peasants, I see? Only…" Frost tilted her head at his empty table. "…Not quite."

"_Emma_," Charles replied, making no attempt to smile back at her. "Unfortunately this seat is reserved for a friend, or I would offer it to you. Since I wouldn't dream of keeping you standing, you can feel free to go on your merry way."

"Don't worry, sweetie," Frost reassured him. "I just came over to ask you how your little research project with Hank is going." She paused, her lips forming an O of sudden, sweetly embarrassed epiphany. "Oh, that's _right_, you're not working on that anymore, are you?"

"I'm sure that you're a hero to drug-resistant mutants everywhere," Charles theorized, and made a little flicking motion at her with his fingers.

Frost's smile dipped into a pitying smirk. "Oh, _honey_; you can't fool me _that_ easily. The only reason I haven't bothered with snapping Hank's mind like a toothpick is because I think I'll enjoy picking him apart to see what you're hiding in that fuzzy blue head of his."

Charles felt the hard insectile arms of fear wrap around his stomach, and for a moment they _squeezed_, but… He pried them away with reason: Frost would not threaten what she could simply _do_. Charles granted her a flat, unamused stare, and warned, "Don't try it."

Her laugh rang high and sparkling. "Are you trying to intimidate me? Haven't you learned by now that there are simpler ways of ruining someone than telepathy?"

Before Charles could decide exactly how to reply to _that_—it was regrettably true, at this point—he glanced over and saw that Badger had returned, juggling a bottle and two stout glasses. The snifter was gone.

"Emma, darling," Badger crooned. "I'm glad you're here. No evening is entirely ruined until you're in it."

"Ah, it's…" Frost rolled her eyes up to the low ceiling as if trying to remember. "Major General Horton, if I recall correctly? And how are your duties coming along? Have you found any insurrectionists hiding in the corridors?"

Badger arched her brows coolly. "I accepted what I had coming to me," she told Frost. "I can only hope that you're as graceful about it when the same happens to you."

"'_Graceful_,' yes…" Frost mused, scrutinizing the other woman's stocky frame. "Well, let's just say I'm not too worried about it."

"Fair enough," Badger acknowledged. "Now, do be a dear and remove yourself elsewhere, eh? I only have enough glasses for two and frankly, you're not getting either of them."

The female telepath's pale blue eyes flashed, and she pursed her lips, studying Badger for a few silent seconds before pronouncing, "You know, I'm not so sure that you _have_ gotten what's coming to you yet. Charles," Frost nodded to him, "Major General… Enjoy your night."

Frost drifted away from them, the clack of her heels slow and unconcerned, and the pair stared after her until she was out of view.

"Well!" Badger exclaimed. She set the glasses down and lowered herself into the chair. "_That_ was exciting."

"'Major General Horton?'" Charles echoed, raising a single eyebrow. Now that she was seated, the insignia on her shoulder were clear, if not particularly familiar: two gold stars and broad, notched band of that same shining thread.

"Yeah, now you know why I prefer 'Badger,'" she agreed. Charles continued to stare at her and she flicked her eyes ceiling-ward. "Eh, it's not _that_ big of a deal. I mean you know that lout, Zeus, right? He outranks me. Clearly the standards can't be set _too_ high, and anyway our unit sizes are pretty small, as these things go."

"Still, that means you should be in charge of—what, a platoon?"

"Division," Badger corrected.

"Right. But… You're not?" Charles prompted, furrowing his brow.

She sighed expansively. "Too sober," she muttered, and set the Scotch whiskey onto the table between the glasses. "Here, I brought you the whole bottle. It's hard to hold onto a full glass when you're in a chair—well, and _keep_ it full, that is."

"Marry me," Charles demanded, fixing his attention on the wavering line of alcohol near the neck of the bottle.

"Ooh," Badger groaned, wedging one of her stout white nails under the cork, "but I would never know if you loved me for me or just because I bring you booze."

"I like you," Charles protested. "Although… Maybe not as much as the booze, no."

"I knew it," she replied, pulling her face into a mocking pout. "You're just using me for Scotch."

Holding his finger and thumb up near each other, Charles admitted, "Maybe a little. Now, about your hallway patrol duties…"

"I'm beginning to doubt your dedication to Scotch," Badger chided, pouring some of that drink into the bottom of his glass. "Here, let's see if _this_ is enough to distract you." She nudged it toward him and it slid over the tabletop and bumped into Charles' palm.

Charles raised it to his lips and took a long sip without breaking eye contact; the smooth glide of it sharpened past his tonsils and he curled his lips into a satisfied grimace. "I can drink and listen at the same time," Charles pronounced.

Badger crossed her arms over her chest, raising her eyebrows and pressing her lips together in surrender. "Well, okay then. It's not a very long story. I've been what we call 'shelved'; that is, I did something that I'm entirely too proud of but they don't have enough qualified soldiers to justify demoting or otherwise getting rid of me, so instead I get all the odd shit jobs, like double-checking the inventory on our armory and looking after _your_ scrawny ass. Happens all the time; or, well, it _did_, back when there were other military forces."

Frowning, Charles asked, "What did you do?"

A corner of Badger's mouth twitched upward. "Don't get too excited, Chuck; I wouldn't still be alive if I weren't loyal. You don't get one of these—" she tapped a blunt claw against the dull silver dome of her helmet— "unless they already know you're not hiding anything in there. You know the Immolation of Chicago? I did that. The only thing was that it should have been worse—I gave them fair warning. Those people were supposed to burn up with the city; inspire a little of the old _terror_ in the enemy. That's the only favor I ever did humanity."

"As favors go, that's considerable," Charles told her.

Badger scoffed. "I'm just not a bully," she explained. "I don't _hate_ humans; it's just that, when the fighting broke out, I had a choice and it seemed pretty obvious." She scratched through the thick black hair on her face. "I don't think I would have done too well on the human side of things." She kept scratching, as if she had accidentally freed an itch, and made a face when her fingers met the edge of the helmet.

"Excuse me," Badger requested, and pulled the helmet off; she set it down on the table next to the bottle of Scotch. Upon seeing Charles' shock, she rolled her eyes. "What? All this fur gets itchy when it's cramped down underneath that all day. Although don't… Don't go _telling_ everybody; I might end up have to check coats next time."

Invitations didn't get much clearer than that—it would almost be rude _not_ to look, and, well, it wasn't as if he weren't curious—so Charles cast out something like a fisherman's bobber to signal what he was doing—she would not have felt that he had been there, otherwise—and waded in just far enough to get his ankles wet; metaphorically speaking of course. From there, he looked out over the warm pond of Badger's mind, at the fish he could see but did not bother to catch moving just beneath the reflected sky.

He didn't understand her soldier's conviction, her willingness to fight against people she didn't hate; it was _there_, like an impenetrable wall of dense and muddy cattails—Charles could _see_ it, could understand its reality, but he couldn't fathom what reasons might lie within.

Charles withdrew and felt, for a moment, the red flash of a turtle's ear—_what if he doesn't like what he saw_? He smiled to himself, just a little, and the sun over Badger's pond grew warmer in a languid pulse of _there's nothing to worry about_.

"Huh," Badger remarked. "That wasn't nearly as unpleasant as when Frost does it."

"I'm not sure that she has any concern for your comfort," Charles commented dryly.

"Then I'll be sure to be extra pissed off next time," she replied. "Speaking of having no concern for your comfort, have you been practicing with your crutches?"

Charles hid behind the glass of whiskey, considering. "Sure I have," he said, when he had swallowed.

Badger glared out at him from under her eyebrows. "_Really_, Charles? Haven't we gone over how if you go through all of this and still can't walk, it'll be your own damn fault?"

"I haven't really had time," Charles told her, cringing at the blatant lie. Sure, he was busier now than he had ever been—but he really had nothing _but_ time, now. It was just… He felt _clumsy_ with the crutches, and every step seemed so much farther away than the last.

Badger shrugged, rolling her wrist down to grasp her glass from the top; she brought it to her mouth and drained half of it in one go, then held her breath, all of her attention focused inward. Finally, she exhaled in a hiss between her teeth. "Well, it's not _my_ time that you're wasting. Mine's already wasted. Now, how about I tell you about something embarrassing Zeus did this one time, instead, and you can think about your failings later…"

.

.

.

**lxxxi.**

Badger left, eventually, after sharing several more misadventures and attempting without much success to goad Charles into telling some of his own; while Charles believed himself to be an excellent storyteller under most circumstances, he had found himself mumbling his anecdotes to a close with something like "and, well, actually we just went straight home after that instead of going any further" or "so you see, I _thought_ about making him believe he was a troll living under the bridge, but in the end I decided it was rather too cruel."

"You can't be afraid to _embellish_ a little," Badger had advised him, looking pained. "It's called artistic license. I mean, you and I _both_ know that I made up half of that last story."

But then someone who had known Badger for quite a lot longer than Charles had called her away, and she had drained her glass, raised it in an empty toast, and left after threatening to see him tomorrow.

The bottle of Scotch was still there, and Charles pulled it toward him; he wasn't sure whether he would have to give it up once he went back to his rooms for the night but he didn't want to risking wasting it if that were the case. It had been a while since he had last had the opportunity for more than a single glass of anything alcoholic, but the whiskey was really quite good and Charles was invested enough in some day having the chance to taste it again that he was willing to take some care not to act like an undergraduate and drink himself stupid.

The helmet remained on the table where Badger had left it and Charles pulled that to him as well, bracing it between his palms as if he could stare into its hollows and find eyes. It was cool beneath his skin; it looked as if it ought to be soft but it snagged, somehow, on the ridges and whorls of his fingers. It was surprisingly light; Charles turned it over and peered inside at the vinyl padding. The one _he_ had worn, back when he had been captured, had been lined with leather—evidently supplies had grown scarce.

He set the helmet back onto the table and nudged it to an arm's length away. Badger would be returning for it, Charles was sure, but he didn't much care to dwell on it until then. Instead, he peered back out onto the open floor of the ballroom and nobody peered back; he didn't stand out anymore now that he sat at a table, and it was dimmer near the wall where the red paper held the light captive.

As Charles sipped at the whiskey and watched the guests talk and gesticulate and exchange their thin polite smiles, he felt a gentle calm wash over him; for a moment, it was as if he weren't there at all: that this was some sort of curious dream, or an anthropological scene set behind a plate glass wall so broad that it only _seemed_ that he was in the same room. The voices and thoughts burbled together and Charles allowed himself to forget their meaning, if only for a little while, and float over top of them.

There was a flash; the sudden rush of displaced air drove the odor of sulphur to sting Charles' nose. Azazel stood before him, snapping reality back into crispness with the sharp black of his suit and the jagged lines of his face.

Azazel's scars dimpled with his grin. "I was beginning to think you had not been invited."

Charles scoffed. "Are you joking? The entire purpose of this evening was just to give us the chance to sit down together."

Ducking his head into a tentative smile, Azazel replied, "Is that so? Then I should be honored that all of this effort was given on my behalf."

"Considering the number of hours spent on hair styling alone, I should think so!" Charles remarked. "All these women have sacrificed their comfort for our sake."

Azazel arched a single crow's-feather eyebrow. "Are they really so uncomfortable?" he asked.

"Like you wouldn't _believe_," Charles confirmed.

"Then," the other man's eyes dipped down to the glass, "we should not let them suffer pointlessly. If I may share that bottle…?"

"Of course," Charles agreed, nodding an invitation toward the empty chair.

Bowing just a little at the waist, Azazel's lips quirked as he requested, "A moment." He vanished in a swirl of red smoke.

Charles settled in to wait but he had no more begun to fidget before Azazel returned, holding a glass of his own. His gray eyes lingered over Charles' stilled fingers and he smirked knowingly as he took his seat. The spade of his long red tail threaded itself through the arm of the chair and looped around one its legs, the sharp tip questing over the tiled floor like the head of a snake.

Tearing his attention away from the appendage, Charles looked back to Azazel only to find himself being studied in turn.

"You will be trusted eventually," Azazel assured him, pointing with his empty glass before reaching to fill it. Charles glanced down, startled to find that he had been working the links of the gold necklace between his fingers.

He dropped the chain quickly and returned to his Scotch. "I'm sure there must have been some adjustment period for you, after Shaw…" Charles hesitated; was he being rude?

Azazel took no notice of the missing verb. He shrugged, a brief rustling hitch of his padded shoulders. "It was very rough going for a while," he admitted. "Magneto was always very suspicious when I went away, for a long time after I joined him. Not without reason, perhaps. But after you were gone, he began needing to rely on me more."

He shifted, and met Charles' gaze. "It was not personal, of course. I am sorry if you were very unhappy, after."

Charles swirled the contents of his glass, staring down into it as he remembered the only time he had ever been teleported anywhere; the sudden suffocating _squeeze_ of it, the unexpectedly obvious _difference_ of the air in that new place. What could he say? _It's all right; I wasn't using those years anyway?_ Or perhaps, _you were only doing your job_—but that excuse had never worked in the past, had it?

"It wasn't bad, as things go," Charles settled for. "The view was nice, and the staff were all very friendly. They didn't understand a thing about genetics but they let me ramble on about it to them. Plenty of practice for lecturing, I suppose."

"That sounds very quiet, at least," Azazel commented. He brought one of his thick, yellowed nails up to touch against a deep groove in his cheek. "I am going to look old soon, for all the scars on my face."

"Some women like that," Charles offered, suddenly very conscious of the fact that he was sitting across from a demonic-looking man who could pop from one place to another with a thought and reassuring said man about his appearance. It all seemed a bit unlikely. "And you're very smartly dressed. They do like that." Charles tugged at the lapel of his own silver-gray suit to emphasize his point.

Azazel's eyes crinkled with amusement as he held his glass near his mouth; the liquid within went scarlet with proximity. "I was not complaining," he explained. "But thank you."

"Oh." Charles blinked, and frowned. "Then maybe you should consider being more careful?"

The white of the other man's teeth gleamed shockingly bright against his skin. "I try, but it never works out that way, you know?"

They spoke for a while longer, although their conversation consisted mostly of quiet punctuated by low murmurs of observation as Azazel joined Charles in watching the other guests. At one point Charles saw Raven out in the crowd, her hair glowing with streaks of orange and her skin deepened to indigo beneath the warm daze of a lamp. She wore a dress Charles proudly suspected might inspire a seamstress to quit on the spot, if that women did not know that Raven had simply grown it from her skin—she was barely decent beneath gauzy layers of white and lattices of shining, silver beads.

At Raven's elbow rested the pale hand of an auburn-haired woman wearing a long, pale blue dress and dark glasses—Charles realized with a start that the woman was blind; moreover, from the way that the woman leaned close to Raven, he suspected that she might be Destiny.

Raven caught his eye from across the room; Charles saw the flash of yellow narrow into sly triumph as she noticed Azazel sitting beside him. She whispered to Destiny, who smiled but did not look over to them, and Raven then waved over to Charles.

Hesitantly, Charles raised his hand in reply; through a series of increasingly vague gestures and wildly exaggerated expressions, Raven communicated that she would not be interrupting them, but that she would certainly try to come by later when Charles was free again.

Charles watched them merge back into the flow of suits and dresses with some measure of bewilderment; beside him, Azazel almost _buzzed_ with amusement.

"They are always going everywhere together," Azazel commented fondly. "Very good friends. Not many people welcomed Destiny at the start. She can see the future; she makes people nervous."

Charles nodded, feeling, despite the warmth of Azazel's words, the sink of disappointment: "very good friends" seemed like such an inadequate label, once he knew the truth. So he didn't reply—and anyway, Charles found that he didn't mind sharing silence with Azazel; the Russian didn't seem to expect anything of him and in turn, Charles was well aware that this truce did not mean that Azazel possessed any inclination to disloyalty.

He felt at ease with that; there was no mystery, here. Charles could sink down into his chair with his glass cradled loosely between his fingers and empty his mind, turning his thoughts into the perfect black sheet of an underground lake; the churning rush of foreign minds ran around and through but not a single eddy rippled that gleaming surface.

If Azazel needed to ask him something, Charles had the time to come back to himself and consider his answer. And if, after that reply, Azazel should want nothing to do with him? Well, then Charles would not be terribly upset; he had not forgotten what the other man had done to the innocent men at the CIA headquarters years ago.

This was a good ritual, Charles decided. The alcohol helped things right along. He could consider overlooking certain injustices, for now.

After about an hour Azazel rose to his feet, the sway of his tail the only indication that the Scotch might have had any effect on him.

Charles tipped his head back, and it seemed as if his brain spun over and over in his skull. He squinted a little; gained focus. "Leaving?"

The other mutant smiled down at him, the gentleness of the expression at odds with the harsh angles of his face. "I can't sit here for the entire evening," Azazel told him, "But I did enjoy our drink." He stepped closer, right up to the side of the chair, and set his hand down on Charles' opposite shoulder. "When you no longer require such an entourage to do so, we should talk again."

"Mm," Charles agreed, leaning over thoughtlessly to rest his head on Azazel's hip. "I would like that."

Fingers brushed lightly over his neck, and Charles felt the hum of surprise from Azazel's mind—a sudden flash of _idea_, of obscenity—then a ruthless living burial of that idea and a chagrined assertion of _apologies; it was only a thought; not to be taken seriously_—

Charles turned his nose to press against the fabric of Azazel's long jacket; smelled cigarette smoke. _I don't mind_, he thought. _…If you want._ And he didn't; not really. Charles needed someone; he needed someone he didn't care about, with whom he could share pleasure and then _leave_, and not worry about the consequences. If that person happened to be a man… Well, it wasn't as if there were very many _women_ throwing themselves at him these days, was it?

Those sword-callused fingers froze against Charles' neck and he sensed Azazel staring down at him; sensed the dull shock in the other man's head warring with mortified contemplation. And in any event, Azazel did not think that Charles was sober enough to be making that sort of offer; that Charles would never even consider it, in his right frame of mind, which… Was quite possibly true. _And that is why you should decide now, while I'm still offering,_ Charles argued.

Azazel wavered; he was not, after all, _attracted_ to men; did not want Charles to think that he was—did not want Charles to delude himself, or to expect anything to come of it—and, Azazel marveled, was he _really_ considering taking Charles up on it?

_Perfect_, Charles insisted, pulling away to peer up at Azazel's face. _I'm not really either._ It seemed to be true, in any case—he did not feel a thing when he looked at the other man, certainly not the—the _madness_ he felt around Erik. But Azazel wasn't _un_attractive, either, just… Different. It was refreshing, like a mouthful of snow.

Finally, weakly, Azazel wondered what Charles could possibly get out of it, why he would even _want_ to—but Charles simply, elegently reminded the other man that he was after all a telepath, and could get quite a lot of it, really.

Azazel frowned, and then shrugged mentally: conceding that if Charles was willing—if he _truly_ wanted to do it—well. Then there was no problem, was there? His tail flicked a request—_follow_—and Charles was disappointed, for a moment, that they weren't going to teleport away. It would have called too much attention, of course; and anyway, like Charles, Azazel's abilities could not reach through the shielded walls.

The entire debate had lasted fewer than ten seconds.

Charles followed behind the red-skinned man, along the edge of the ballroom and to one of the curtain-lined doorways; he tried not to look suspicious as he scanned over the faces out in the main of the room, searching to see: was Erik watching? Or, worse, _Raven_. Preemptive fear skated through his gut; maybe… Maybe this _wasn't_ such a good idea…

But Azazel held the door open and Charles smiled up at him in a distracted sort of way as he wheeled through. For all that the other mutant had been reluctant, his anticipation now coiled slow and curious through Charles' mind; the telepath felt almost drunk with it—well, he _was_ drunk, a bit, of course—but he remembered, now, why he had missed this. Azazel bore no resemblance to one of those blushing co-eds, but this… _This_ part was the same, still, and Charles basked under that attention, if perhaps not quite as vainly as he had when he was younger.

They reached the coatroom and Azazel shut the door behind them, enclosing the pair within the dense silence of furs and wool, illuminated by a single yellow bulb. The teleporter peered down at Charles, his brow furrowed; _now what_? he wanted to know.

_Back—_ Charles urged, eyeing the room around them. Azazel's need rested in his abdomen right alongside his own, distracting. _Against the wall._

Azazel took note of the fact that the wall, as it so happened, was covered in coats.

_Of course it is,_ Charles agreed. _At least it will be soft._ He didn't wait for Azazel to think about it; instead, Charles drove the other man back into the coats through the simple expedient of crowding forward with his chair until Azazel leaned nestled in the folds of some sort of fur—rabbit, maybe, who knew—and Charles poised before him, brakes locked in place to give him some leverage. This would be different—definitely different from touching a women—but this was a skill he'd need soon, wasn't it? Best to learn now, when it wasn't serious; when Charles could get into Azazel's head and know what worked.

_Not_, Charles mused privately, _that it is really all that complicated, comparatively._

Azazel's fingers rested lightly on Charles' shoulders and the telepath didn't look up to see his face, although he knew what would be there—a continuing bemusement, but not enough surprise that it reached Azazel's eyes. His irises were too light to be dark with arousal but Charles knew, because he could feel it echoed in himself, that Azazel's lips would be very slightly parted as he exhaled reverently through them, watching intently as Charles shoved his hips back, flush to the wall—as Charles pushed the black suit jacket out of his way and wrapped the fingers of his left hand around the teleporter's belt buckle—

Charles' fingers slid off the buckle, pulled by his wrist—no—Charles frowned in confusion, then lost his frown to _alarm_ because he was being pulled by his _watch_—

The collar wound tight around Charles' neck, just enough to force him up straight; he met Azazel's stare and found his own realization matched there, in the wild, frenzied denial of the truth of it—the truth that Erik would certainly be there at any moment, was all around them _now_, in hangers and buttons and the metal of the wheelchair, and there was no point in hiding because they'd already been found.

Azazel and Charles shared a long, panicked stare of _what are we supposed to do now_, straining their ears as if they could hear through the insulation of the coats until finally, just in time, it occurred to Azazel that maybe it would be best if Erik _didn't_ walk in to see him pressed up against the wall in front of Charles—and so Azazel slipped out from the grasp of the fur coat and away from Charles moments before the door opened.

Charles didn't want to look—his face _burned_ with humiliation—but he had to; he couldn't force himself to turn away as the door swung open and Erik stared in at them, lips pressed tight between the hard vertical lines of his helmet. His expression was unreadable except for one damning, immutable fact: he wasn't happy.

Azazel, who had not been standing nearby to begin with, ducked his head and shuffled a further step away, tail curving around his ankles. "Apologies," he muttered, fixing his attention on the shiny toes of his boots. "I didn't know."

Erik did no more than glance at the teleporter before pinning Charles with cold gray-green eyes. He crooked his finger; "Come with me," he commanded, and before Charles could decide not to obey the chair jumped into life beneath his palms, coming to heel in the wake of Erik's cape.

.

.

.

**lxxxii.**

Erik said nothing, but the stiff jut of his shoulders spoke volumes as he led Charles down the hall. That was all right, though; Charles' fear—it was, after all, perfectly true that Erik could be terrifying—was rapidly transmuting into an anger of his own. He found himself seething right along with Erik as they went around a corner—through a set of wide double doors—_another_ set of doors—and then out into darkness, where—

The cold seared the air from Charles' lungs and he forgot his fury to gaze up at the sky; the moon loomed almost full above them, like the hooded eye of some great and beautiful reptile. Dried leaves rattled from tree branches, their withered embrace reaching nearly to the wall of the mansion itself. They were outside, but no mere courtyard was this! This was the forest, that great sprawl of wilderness that lay just beyond the mansion walls, which Charles had previously only glimpsed through the windows.

The world had proved itself large again, and Charles was only one tiny mammal crawling along the grudging surface of his planet. It was hard to believe that he had fancied himself meaningful—but then, didn't some people have more influence than others? And now—now it was getting harder to hold onto that anger, and it was impossible not to remember: rage was Erik's territory, and they were firmly within that tangled space now. The confident buzz of the alcohol receded into a tinny whine: Charles had, in all likelihood, made something of a mistake.

A concrete path lit by low electric lamps trailed off lonely into the distance, presumably finding its origin at a garage of some sort, where the guests had come through. Erik—and thus, Charles—followed this path for a while before diverging onto a hard-packed dirt trail leading into the satin black of the forest. The wheelchair shuddered over the first bump and then rose to hover a stately few inches above the ground.

Charles felt a chill, but it was in addition to his gradually accumulating shivers, not because of them—if something happened to him out here, no one would know.

_That's ridiculous_, a more rational part of his mind whispered. _If he wanted to get rid of you he would just _do_ it. Besides, there's a trail; clearly people come here._ Still, it was… Unnerving. Why go so far from the mansion?

It would have been better if there was snow; the dusting that Raven and Charles had abused each other with was long gone now, but that sheet of white would have reflected the moonlight and made it so much easier to see. Erik had been reduced to a lean black silhouette before him, featureless except for where the gleam of the moon rested on his helmet like a slippery coin.

Eventually they reached a clearing, filled with the soft luminescence of dead grass not yet matted down by the crush of snow. It shushed over Erik's boots as he strode out into it, and those long shards of leaves caressed the wheels of the chair as if in adulation as it sank back to the ground. The grass stood in gossiping clumps all around them, and there was enough light now that Charles could see, more or less, the features of Erik's face as he turned around again; as he coiled tense and fuming over the solid root of his feet.

Erik's voice snapped in the cold air. "What did you think you were doing?"

Charles gaped at him indignantly, and said, "If you need me to explain, then maybe we shouldn't be having this conversation."

The other huffed a laugh, mocking Charles' taunt. "_Really_, Charles—what did you even hope to achieve? You were going to—to _suck the cock_ of a murderer, for what? To get back at _me_?"

Charles found that he was trembling, but he refused to wrap his arms around himself. Frigid air teased over his neck as he raised his chin and stated, "I don't see how it's any of your business."

"It _is_ my business," Erik growled, taking a single stuttering step closer. "Moral considerations aside, did you even spare a _thought_ for your safety? Did you realize where you _were_?" He _snarled_, almost, and jerked his head to the side as if he couldn't stand to see Charles so naïve. "Two doors away from _outside_, out of the shielding. He could have taken you away, gone _anywhere_—"

"He wasn't going to," Charles replied, flatly, and Erik whipped around again to face him.

Striding forward, Erik hissed, "That's not the _point_. He _could_ have. All it would have taken was a silver of open door—" He stopped, biting off the end of his own sentence as he looked away again; then he paced back, cape swirling around his shins.

"He wasn't _going_ to," Charles repeated. "No one—no one _without a helmet_ can force me to do _anything_, let alone travel—travel somewhere else against my will."

"No," Erik breathed, stalking slowly forward. "No, they _couldn't_ make you do anything—which leads me to ask—why _did_ you? Why do something so foolish, so, so…"

Charles narrowed his eyes, daring Erik to continue. "Again: how is what I do on my own time any business of yours?"

Erik frowned; his eyebrows furrowed tightly together as he stared down at Charles. "It _is_. You're my…"

"'Your' what?" Charles echoed, watching icily.

"You're _mine_," Erik concluded, his voice a deep feral rumble. He stood tall over Charles for a moment, muscles all coiled potential—then bent, darted down—his gloved hand wrapped around the base of Charles' skull, angling his head up as Erik pressed in to kiss him—

Erik didn't make a sound when Charles bit into his lip, but between one moment and the next he had gone; vanished. Charles opened his eyes to see Erik standing, still close, shoulders hunched as the fingers of one hand hovered near his chin in case his tongue proved insufficient to learn the extent of the damage. Most of Erik's attention, however, remained fixed on Charles; his eyes were wide with shock and—what was that, _hurt_?

No, because that would have been ridiculous—ridiculous to feel betrayed after trying to force a kiss on someone who didn't want it and earning their justified retaliation. Charles' gaze dipped, down to Erik's parted lips, where steam unfurled itself over the dark gleam of blood in the moonlight. He saw the hesitant tip of Erik's tongue, there, blindly seeking to assure itself of the wound's exaggeration. Absolutely absurd—_lunacy_.

Charles saw his own breath—a faint tatter of fog, that constant exhalation made visible now only through its protest of the wintry air, vanishing again as it surrendered to the ambient temperature. Charles himself felt cold, but not—not as much as he _had_ been; his heart beat rapidly in his chest, the fire of—of anger, of vindication, of—maybe alcohol too, still, who knew—

A low, faint groan struggled from Charles' throat as he reached up and seized Erik by the collar of his cape, as he dragged the other down—and Erik resisted at first; tried to obey Charles' first command with the defiance of this second—then gave in, supported himself with his hands on the back of the chair as Charles pulled him into the kiss.

Erik hissed as Charles crushed against his bitten lip, but made no further noise as the geneticist explored with his tongue, tasting the thick sluggish twinge of blood as he sucked on Erik's lip, then moved on to Erik's teeth, and between them—his tongue, too, tasted of iron, and—well, that was appropriate, wasn't it? It seemed to Charles that if—if Erik _were_ to have a taste, it ought to be of metal.

Charles broke away, leaning back to see; Erik stared back at him, through the steam of their unsteady breaths, his eyes dark and intent through those living whorls, fixed on Charles'; the attentive, dangerous stare of a half-tamed dragon.

Erik took his hands off the back of the chair and stood; the cold rushed back to embrace Charles immediately. Then, quietly, full of the stillness of uneasy confidence, the other held out a hand and offered: "Dance with me."

Charles glanced around at the empty clearing, at the darkness beyond. The only other sound was that of the wind, high in the branches. He laughed, faintly; briefly. His heart raced inappropriately. _Lunacy_; yes, that was the correct word—madness by moonlight. Who knew that it could so severely afflict even the best of them? "What, _here_? Now?" Charles asked, incredulously.

Erik's only reply was an insistent angling of his eyebrows as he breathed lightly from his mouth, the air waiting in his lungs. The hand remained.

Charles sighed, nudged the footrests aside and lowered his shoes down into the grass as he slid his hand into Erik's; who was _he_, to say no to a madman? So Charles gripped tightly as the other man pulled him up to his feet, and as Erik wrapped an arm and a good portion of his cape around Charles. He did not release Charles' hand.

Erik leaned back, a little, to peer down at Charles, a soft, tender smile wrinkling the corners of his eyes, pulling at the tear in his lip—then he looked to the side and Charles followed his gaze to watch the chair move itself out of their way.

Slowly, astonishingly—they began to dance.

It wasn't much; just a rather awkward shuffling of feet as Charles followed Erik's lead. His legs were stronger now, but not yet enough that he could do anything more, and at first Charles felt very self-conscious. There was no music, there was no grace to this, none of the hard-won skill Charles had once displayed on Saturday nights in Oxford—merely a mindless sort of rocking, drifting slow circles through the rustling prickle of dead grass; just the two of them endlessly, painfully aware of each other. But…

But after a while, Charles realized that he was _warm_, beneath Erik's cape and with his hand cradled in Erik's, and he could feel the shift of muscles in the other's back where he had splayed the fingers of his free hand. The edge of the helmet dug hard through Charles' hair, but Erik's nose rested there too and Charles could feel the heat from inside his chest with every fall of Erik's ribs.

Charles had already put his head down against Erik, but now he closed his eyes, listening to the shush of the wind overhead. Somewhere out there the world lay in ruins, but here—now—it was only autumn, and summer would come again.

Eventually Charles became aware of the fact that Erik had stopped, and now they only stood leaning together; he blinked up at the man to see that Erik wasn't smiling, not really, but his eyes—god, his _eyes_—

Charles swallowed, and felt something catch. He realized that there was cold air drafting up beneath the thin fabric of his trousers and shivered. "Could you," he whispered harshly, "Could you take me back inside, please?"

_Now_ Erik smiled, gently. "Of course," he agreed, and when he lowered Charles down the chair waited, ready. Erik stepped back, thought for a moment, and removed his cape with a sweep; then spread it over Charles, tucking the edges down behind his shoulders. "I have to be somewhere tomorrow night," Erik murmured as he did this. "I have a speech to organize… But then, the day after tomorrow… I will see you again."

Satisfied that Charles would be warm, Erik led him back. As the geneticist stared at the man's shoulders—relaxed, now, not a bit of threat in those muscles—he huddled cold and miserable even beneath the weight of the cape. Charles had run out of time; he had stayed too long and indulged too much. If he wanted to leave, to fix this—it would have to be _soon_.

And Charles had a plan for how to do just that.

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	23. Chapter 23

Ah, finally, here it is! Another plotty chapter I'm afraid, but after this—well, remember what I said about the next time Erik and Charles see each other…? ;) So yeah. I hope you like it! :o

Beta'd, as usual, by the indispensable idioticonion from LJ!

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**lxxxiii.**

Charles' new plan was, essentially, simply an addendum to the old plan: he approached Hannah the moment he arrived at the lab and asked, "When we were talking the other day, you said you would be able to supply yourself with drugs—did you mean that you have access to medical storage?"

She peered up from her centrifuge tubes, eyebrows raised in inquiry. "Um. Yes, I suppose? I worked there for a little bit back when I came here. Security wasn't as organized back then so I still have the key. Why? Did you need something?"

"I need to go there," Charles explained.

Hannah frowned; then her eyes lit up with a cold glee and she pointed at him with the sterile tip of her micropipette. "You're going to poison Magneto, aren't you!"

"I—" Charles stared at her doubtfully. "What makes you think that?"

She gave him a look that suggested he was being very dense. "You're _Charles Xavier_. You're the one who is supposed to defeat him!"

Charles sighed and shook his head, just a little—sadly. "Not you, too? Look, I'm not—I'm not a hero, it's just… There's no one _else_, and the Brotherhood can't keep going on like this…"

"But that's the _point_. You don't really gain anything, do you? But it's the right thing to do," Hannah explained, patiently. She set the micropipette down on its side, tip hanging over the edge of the counter.

_Except that I _do_ gain something from it_, Charles reminded himself, and then shushed that part of his mind. Instead, he said, "All right, yes, I'm planning to drug… Magneto. Beast and I were going to get the sedatives through official means but Frost caught on to it. If we can get down there ourselves, however… We'll have another chance."

"I see," Hannah agreed, nodding to herself. Then, contemplatively, she added, "I'll go too."

"_What_? No, absolutely not—the fewer people, the less chance anything will go wrong," Charles insisted.

Hannah did not roll her eyes, but she appeared to seriously consider doing so. "Look, I'm familiar with their filing system, and I'm not going to let you lose my key since I do rather need it."

"Beast and I can't risk being caught," Charles reminded her. "We only get this one chance, so if you would just let me borrow the information from your mind…"

"Certainly," Hannah replied, nodding shortly. "But wouldn't it be good to have more than one set of eyes? In any event, it's not as if I can afford to be caught either. I've had three and a half years of practice, you know."

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose, then inhaled deeply and ran that same hand through his hair. He did not like this; not at all, not one _bit_, but… "All right, fine. We'll need someone to carry my chair down the stairs anyway."

So he went to Beast, and because the office was slightly too small for all three of them they met again in the room Hannah and Charles shared. The two other scientists eyed each other over with evident curiosity.

"I don't think we've officially met before," Hannah said, and extended a hand to Beast, who shook it warily.

"I recognize you," Beast realized, nostrils flaring as he sniffed at the air. "You implemented the histidine tags that I hypothesized could be used for protein purification, didn't you?"

"I did," Hannah acknowledged, standing as tall as she could. Then, cautiously, she boasted, "I also designed the gel electrophoresis technique that we use, and the RNA blot test."

Beast pursed his lips over his sharp teeth and nodded appreciatively. "Ah, yes—those would have been useful tools to have back when I was developing selective gene expression in the CIA's labs."

The two stared at each other for a moment longer before Hannah relaxed and smiled. "Oh, so it's true that you did the initial research on expression! I must say, it's remarkable what you did with it, considering how little prior data existed at the time. I wouldn't be able to do any of my work without your discoveries."

Hannah and Beast turned their attention back to the business at hand, mostly ignoring each other now that they had determined themselves to be too far apart in skill to worry about competition.

"We have to do this tonight," Charles told them, and Beast furrowed his tufted eyebrows.

"Tonight! That's… That's quite the short notice," he protested, voice piping up to pitches he'd mostly abandoned since his transformation. "I had planned on staying up in Engineering; there was a project we wanted to finish; goodness, that's soon… Why tonight?"

Charles glanced over to him. "It has to be. Erik—ah, Magneto—is going to be in Virginia, and I'm fairly certain that he can use the metal of my chair to check my location while he's here." Fairly certain, yes—and that was _not_ anecdotal evidence that Charles especially wanted to revisit, although he inevitably did just that.

He didn't regret what he'd tried to do with Azazel—well, he _did_, but not because of the deed itself; rather, he regretted the involvement of the other man in his affairs. _Maybe I should have altered his memory,_ Charles mused, and then cringed; no, that was definitely not the correct way to deal with that problem; just because he _could_ use his telepathy… In any event, he would have to apologize to Azazel, the next time that he saw him.

"It is really wise for you to come along?" Beast asked, crossing his arms as he leaned back against a counter. "Not that you wouldn't be helpful, of course, but you can't deny the risk…" His hesitation had gone; now his leonine eyes shined with a hard glint of calculation. More than any snarl Beast had ever indulged himself with, _this_ was the stare of a predator.

"It's not a risk I want to leave you to deal with alone," Charles replied, brushing away the image of a patiently attentive wolf. "In any event, the benefit of having a telepath along may well outweigh the danger; we're probably more likely to run into staff than security so I should be able to reach their thoughts." He looked at Hannah for confirmation and she nodded.

"Still, _tonight_…" Beast mused, rubbing his chin between his claws. "I'd _really_ like if there was more time to plan… Well, that's a moot point anyway, I suppose. I will, however, need time to copy down the lists of sedatives for you to reference."

"No need," Charles told him. "I'll make sure that we all know any relevant information when the time comes. Beast, you should come to my rooms at eleven; Hannah, meet us here."

"I'll be here anyway," she said.

Beast inclined his head. "I assume you'll be giving me a false pretense for bringing you here, so… How about, I'm taking you to see the automated teleporter that we're building downstairs while it's not crawling with techs."

"Perfect," Charles agreed, then creased his brow. "Really? An automated teleport? Oh, you really _must_ show that to me for real some day."

"It doesn't look like much yet," Beast muttered with a shrug. "It'll be cooler when it's done."

Charles smiled brightly at the furred scientist. "I'm sure it's lovely. All right, then—tonight, yes?" The others gave their cautious assent. "Marvelous; I'll block your memories until then."

Hannah raised her chin, frowning. "Not _mine_, right? I've managed with my own secrets all this time."

"Yes, and you've managed brilliantly at that, but this goes beyond your personal safety," Charles explained, as he brought the tips of his fingers up to his temple. "Think of it as a favor—at least you won't spend the rest of the day worrying about it."

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**lxxxiv.**

Those words turned out to be damningly prophetic, and Charles found himself wishing that he could alter his own memories and forget that he had any reason to check his watch. Excitement and dread chased each other like twin squirrels around the walls of his stomach, and worse: somehow Charles had to _sit still_ through all of that commotion as he went through yet another day in the manor.

After a few highly productive hours of fumbling with his pipette tips, Charles was forced to wait at Erik's side as the Brotherhood preformed their daily roll call of neglectful corruption. The issue of the day seemed to be the growing number of protests from the anti-extictionists and, to a lesser extent, from Brotherhood supporters; Erik's public speech later in the week was intended to pacify these complaints, to assure the humans and their allies of his honesty and to stress the pragmatism to his followers.

Even within the conference room itself, however, attitudes were chill toward the idea, and the inclination seemed to be to treat the speech as more of a bad joke than a serious priority. Charles wondered how much of that might be true—whether Erik, for all of his stern reminders that yes, security was important, but no, they shouldn't have rows of gunmen and pyrokinetics menacing the crowd—if maybe Erik was only putting on a better show than the rest. It was hard, after all, to give the benefit of the doubt to someone who had already done as much as Erik had to deny that trust.

After the meeting Erik escorted Charles back to his rooms as usual, and as Erik's fingers rested gentle beneath the telepath's chin and his lips brushed over Charles' forehead, he had to wonder; he had to stare into those gray-green eyes and ask, calling from outside the impenetrable wall of the helmet, _what would you do if you knew_? But Charles' thoughts slid off as usual and in the next moment Erik was gone; had bid Charles farewell until—and Erik's eyes darkened meaningfully as he examined Charles from the door—_tomorrow_.

Charles shivered, and now it was almost a relief to think about his plans for the night. Better that, than to ruminate over the _next_ night, and whatever Erik might have planned for him then. Where did their deal _stand_, anyway? Was Erik still restricted to touching him—touching him above the—

His mind stuttered to a stop and Charles reminded himself, with forced cheer, _well, we might all die before then anyway; who knows_. Which… Was admittedly unlikely. But it was quite a different subject altogether than imagining a return to Erik's arms—to his _lap_—

Charles took a very deep breath and exhaled shakily. It didn't matter; it didn't matter, after tonight. He would stay close as long as he had to, and then… Well. Whatever came after that. In the meantime, yes, he would quite possibly become involved in some further sexual relations with Erik, but that was still quite a ways off, compared to his other concerns.

Eleven o' clock, as it turned out, took its time in arriving. The tsking of his watch provided him with an abundance of minutes and a shortage of hours, but that was more than enough time to think of all the ways it could go wrong. They might not be killed, but they could be captured; the others—Beast and Hannah—could be injured, and quite possibly for nothing.

Charles reminded himself again what Erik had done: the freedoms he had already taken from Charles, and from the rest of the world. Little freedoms—little luxuries that they had taken for granted and now sorely missed. Perhaps… Perhaps the threat of capture did not matter so much, because they were already imprisoned.

Then again, maybe he shouldn't be so quick to decide which further liberties his colleagues were willing to sacrifice.

It was a relief, finally, to be taken away to physical therapy.

Charles blinked and then smiled to see that Badger had gone without her helmet again; she scowled at him, but not without fondness.

"Yeah, I'm flattered that you think so highly of me, but please tell me that after I left last night you chucked it into the trash in a fit of rage," Badger pleaded.

Charles had to think back, beyond Azazel, past the coatroom, past all the—the _dancing_—and could not remember anything about it beyond when he had set it down. "No," he replied, contrite. "Have I gotten you into trouble?"

"No more than usual," Badger sighed. "Just… Be careful, yeah?" But then she left him in the clutches of a phenomenally lightweight leg press and Charles lost that anxiety to the general background hum of the rest.

The susurration of the hydraulics failed to distract him, but it helped, and Charles missed the work when he again sat in his rooms. He held a book but did not read it; he stared to where his crutches leaned again the opposite wall but did not go to them. He considered taking a nap before Beast arrived, but his mind went grainy with restlessness at the mere idea.

It seemed to take forever, but then, too soon—there was a knock at his door. Charles looked down at his watch and saw that the hands leered back from eleven and twelve.

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**lxxxv.**

Beast talked about his teleport project the entire way to the labs.

"It's not strictly speaking _mine_, of course," Beast clarified, setting his hands out to make a vague box shape in front of him as Charles looked on in queasy bemusement. "It's mostly all Eli and Isaac's doing, but I do like to help when I can. It's all very exciting—they've done enough tests on mutants with spatial displacement abilities to have some idea on how to reverse-engineer the process but of course it's very risky; according to _my_ calculations, we could accidentally teleport this entire wing of the mansion to, mm, say, the _Artic_, if it's close, and outside of the _galaxy_ if it's not, so none of us are in a rush to turn it on before we're absolutely certain that it's ready."

"The Brotherhood let you build something that dangerous inside their headquarters?" Charles asked, surprised. All that, and they determined a measly bottle of sedative to be the greater threat?

Beast shrugged. "Well, it's not attached to the power generator, yet. Actually, the generator itself isn't even finished; it still only produces enough energy to bend a volume of space roughly equivalent to a sunflower seed."

"Of course," Charles conceded, frowning.

Shortly afterward, they reached the lab; still talking, Beast opened the door—and froze, blinking in at Hannah, who stared back in equal shock as, slowly… They remembered again.

"Oh," Hannah remarked, sounding dazed. "That is _strange_. But at least it explains why I have these flashlights." She held up a pair of electric torches, one in each hand, and then tucked them into the pockets of her lab coat—one each for her and Charles. Beast had declined the offer earlier in the day, explaining that he could see perfectly well in the dark.

With that, they left again—quite without gossip, now that they all knew where they were going.

Charles tensed as they passed a pair of scientists walking down the hallway in the opposite direction, poised at the edge of their minds in case they raised any questions, but instead one of them glanced up at Beast briefly and raised a few fingers in a perfunctory wave before returning to their own private conversation. Charles let out his breath in a long, low hiss once they were gone.

But really, that proved to be the rule, rather than an exception; as they made their way through the long pristine hallways of the second-floor laboratory wing, walking with casual, confident purpose—none of the late-working people they passed even questioned them.

They turned into the hallway that led to the staircase and Charles let the wheels coast beneath his palms for a moment, not _quite_ long enough to slow down, as he saw the guard lingering just inside the recessed landing of the stairs, tucked into an alcove created by some quirk of construction. He was wearing red; not the rich, thick coat that Badger and her fellows wore, but rather the thin starchy cotton of security. More importantly: he was wearing a helmet.

_Calm_, Charles impressed into the minds of the scientists walking before him. _Stay calm. Keep going._ Neither of them wanted to; Beast wanted to go on past the staircase, act as if they'd never been going there in the first place; Hannah wanted to stop and turn around, but her foot skipped up off the ground before she could plant it down and she sent a wordless, shuddering dart of _**!**_ flying into Charles' head.

_Sorry, dear,_ Charles whispered, staring straight ahead. _But we can't hesitate for even a moment._

The guard looked up as they approached; his eyes widened beneath his helmet and he snatched a white blur of cigarette from his lips—tried to hide it at his side, failed—then turned around a little to hide his face, back straight as if they might suddenly forget that he'd been having a stealthy smoking break in the back stairway.

As Charles coached the minds of his companions—_calm_, he repeated, _just stay calm; act like we _belong_here_—he stopped near the top of the stairs; Beast came to stand on one side and Hannah the other. Under the guard's very scrupulous non-attention, Beast bent down to let Charles sling his arm over his neck.

The telepath's fingers sank into thick blue fur as Beast hoisted him upright easily, as if he weighed nothing at all. One thick, unyielding hand cupped under the curve of Charles' ribs, holding him in place as Beast half-carried, half-supported Charles down the stairs. Behind them, Hannah folded the wheelchair with drilled proficiency and hefted it down after them, hurrying a little so that she could open it back up before Charles needed it again.

Once he was seated, Charles resisted the urge to look back up the stairs, to see if the guard was watching them. His neck prickled. Really, though, there was no doubting that the man at the top of the steps would be staring—the question was _why_. Benign, if impolite curiosity? Or something more insidious?

_Take your own advice_, Charles told himself. _None of this is out of the ordinary. Or at least… As far as _he_ knows._ That was the benefit of having Beast with them; he lent their group some amount of authority. So, firmly, resolutely—Charles began moving again. They were almost there.

The hallways downstairs were essentially identical to those upstairs, but the odor was different—outside the biology labs the hallway smelled of a strange meaty sterility, of agar and bleach and ethanol; here the air was dominated by the burn of cut plastic, the heavy sweetness of hot solder, and most especially: the overwhelming, dull _presence_ of steel.

"That's where we would go, if we went to see the teleporter," Beast murmured, nodding down the long expanse of hallway they now turned away from. Charles only gave a low grunt of acknowledgement, disinclined to break their cultivated silence. There was nothing down that corridor that might indicate the presence or absence of anything, let alone something that might bend the laws of space so extraordinarily—only more white tile and black trim; more anonymous metal doors.

The hallway they traveled now, by contrast, was much warmer, in mood if not temperature; Charles' brow furrowed as the wheels of his chair resisted the cushion of the rich brown carpeting. The walls were still white, but they were painted with a different gloss: warmer, more textured, and without that hard plastic shine. The doors here were made of wood and the industrial scents were gone, drowned out by carpet cleaner and recently applied wood finish—well, more recently than Charles was used to, at least.

Where the labs were designed for efficient cleanliness, this was a place that at least acknowledged the comfort of its denizens.

Hannah, in the lead, stopped them before they could turn the next corner, and the uncomfortable tingle returned to run its claws down from Charles' scalp to the line of his scapula. _You're in a place you're not supposed to be_, it hissed into his ear, and Charles shook it off. He _had_ to be here; he was doing something _right_. Although… They _were_ awfully exposed, all huddled up behind the corner. That must certainly be what had attracted this dread; this skulking unease.

"The entrance is around there," Hannah whispered, pointing through the wall at an angle, and Charles' attention drew to a keen, narrow focus on that implied location. He was all right; in fact, he could see why Erik liked this sneaking around and plotting. It was quite… Exciting, in a way.

"Well?" Beast urged, eyes wide. "Take a look."

"_Me_?" Hannah squeaked. "Why me?"

"You're the only one of us who's not blue, or," Beast indicated Charles, "in a chair. Or well-known. So if someone sees you, it won't matter as much."

She stared beseechingly at Charles. "It's true," he confirmed. "You're less conspicuous than either of us, and you _did_ volunteer for this." Nonetheless, Charles had to pause, to take a deep breath and remind himself: he had once stood unflinchingly under a rain of missiles. Now they were standing in a _hallway_, essentially just after curfew—in no way did the two compare.

_Except that this is your only chance at this_, Charles thought, _and you couldn't exactly do anything about the missiles_. Outwardly, however, he smiled confidently and reached out to squeeze Hannah's shoulder. He tried not to imagine what might happen if she _were_ caught and discovered; tried not to wonder whether he had enough influence over Erik to…

"You'll be fine," Charles reassured her. "Now go on, be a good accomplice and have a look."

She nodded briefly and edged up to the sharp line of plaster, fingers settled just within its margins. As her shoulders bunched around her ears, Hannah angled first her nose out, and then one eye.

She jerked back. "Shit, _shit_—there's a guard! With a _helmet_!"

The other two scientists stared at Charles, frozen; their panic twined around him like creeping, choking vines; thin for now but growing.

"It's all right," Charles told them, puffing air through his cheeks. "We can't know what his mutation is so we can't simply attack. We'll just… We'll have to… Talk to him. Yes. Get him to leave."

If they had been staring before, _now_… Well. Beast and Hannah did not, to put it mildly, seem especially impressed with this plan, but at least the edge of their fear had been lost to incredulity.

"Yes," Hannah snapped, "I'll just stroll up and ask where the _break room_ is, and if he could lead me there!"

"That could work," Charles insisted.

"No," Beast said slowly, "it would definitely _not_ work. Complain about the lazy guard on the stairs."

Now Charles and Hannah looked to Beast in bemusement. "The guard on the stairs?" Charles asked, pressing his eyebrows together. "What about him?"

Hannah pursed her lips. "Did you just _volunteer_ me?"

"Yes, for the same reasons as before," Beast explained to her, and then turned to Charles. "Nobody hates a loiterer as much as someone who's doing their job."

"Yes, but—" Charles spluttered, "But, Beast, not everybody _has_ work ethic like we do!"

"I do," Hannah piped up.

The geneticist tipped his head back and groaned. "We're _scientists_. Moreover—we're _consummate_ scientists. We're hardly a representative sample of the population."

"Just, how about this," Beast offered. "Hannah, you walk down, act very aloof and indignant—you know, like someone in charge. Like Frost."

"I've never actually seen her," Hannah replied, dryly. "Or I wouldn't be standing here."

Beast flapped his hand dismissively; that wasn't the point. "Anyway, then ask about the guy standing around smoking in the stairwell. If he buys it, keep walking and we'll start down the hallway as he's walking toward us. If he says anything to us, or comes back—then we're just passing through."

"I'm not sure I like this plan," Hannah confessed.

"I'll be with you," Charles reminded her, tapping his forehead with his middle and index fingers. And if it didn't work—well, they could risk violence, couldn't they? Or maybe just go back to their rooms…

"Okay," she agreed, nodding quickly. "All right." Then she muttered: "Luck, don't fail me now—" before standing up straight, squaring her shoulders, and smoothing her tied hair against her neck.

She stepped out into the hallway junction and slumped. "Oh," Hannah said. "He's gone."

"What? _Where_?" Beast demanded, starting up from his crouch.

Something squeezed around Charles' lungs, writhing madly around in there—_too easy, this is too _easy—but Charles shoved at Beast's back. They didn't have time for this. "Go, just _go_."

Beast staggered into motion as all three of them hurried down the hallway to the door.

It was wooden, like all the others, but it had a little frosted window with the dull gold letters of _Medical Storage_ painted on. It looked very underwhelming, and it unlocked easily, on the first try. Beast, Hannah, and Charles all looked around at each other wildly before tumbling in.

Beast shut the door behind them and flattened his bulk against the wall as he reached over and locked it again. He paused, eyes shining in the sudden shadow. "…Did we have a plan for how we're getting out again if the guard comes back?" he asked.

"Brain him from behind," Charles replied simply, and beckoned for a torch.

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**lxxxvi.**

Beyond the desks and little offices, beyond the racks of slim manila folders marked and alphabetized with the names of patients—Charles thought, with unease, that _his_ file must be in there, with all of his scars and troubles, and maybe Erik's as well—past all of that there lay a room that seemed somehow both bigger and smaller than its real dimensions. Smaller, because it had been a long time since Charles had seen a room so crowded with shelves and boxes and trays; larger, because the sheer _immensity_ of the collection was staggering, despite the ruthlessly compressed organization.

There was barely enough room for the chair between the shelves, and Charles' knuckles brushed cardboard as he squeezed through, balancing his light over his thighs. He reached for a box that seemed, according to the memories he'd borrowed from Hannah, to be a likely candidate for one of the items on the list he'd taken from Beast's mind.

A little ways down that same aisle, rummaging on the opposite shelf, Beast huffed. "No wonder they get so annoyed when we're not specific," he mused. "This is _insane_. Ooh, this is interesting—vincristine—no, no, that's _old_, now… Well, relatively new, but still old."

"That's not on the list," Charles murmured, shining his torch into the box on his lap and turning over labels with the other hand. "Stay on track."

"Sorry," Beast replied, not sounding especially apologetic at all. "It's just, I can't help sort of glancing around for a new project that's come down the pipes—you won't believe this: it was in a _red_ folder."

"Oh?" Charles said vaguely, closing the box and setting it back on the shelf. Most of the folders that he saw on a daily basis were red.

"That means that it comes from the _top_," Beast hissed—there was no way anyone out in the hall would be able to hear them, but neither of them felt inclined to raise their voices. "Maybe even from Magneto himself."

Well, that would explain the proliferation of red folders, then. "What was it?" Charles asked, startling himself with the loudness of his voice.

"It's strange. It's an order to resume—well, _begin_, really—cancer research; for humans, of course. I can't think what that means," Beast explained, "except that it's all very quiet, for such a political order. I would have expected more hand-waving and fanfare. I wonder what Magneto's playing at."

Charles' hands stilled over the lid of another box. "Maybe he genuinely wants to help," he proposed.

There was a sharp laugh from the hulking darkness of Beast's silhouette. "Maybe," he acknowledged, "Or maybe, if he _really_ wanted to help, he would never have spilled all that radiation out into the atmosphere in the first place."

Abandoning the box he had been about to open, Charles instead pushed himself forward a little and lifted one from a higher shelf. "A person can feel regret, can't they?"

Charles heard the clinking of glass bottles as Beast rummaged around. "Sure." His voice was muffled, but clearly dismissive. "However, I think this goes a little beyond what can be forgiven, don't you?"

The light of the torch sparkled off the brown glass inside Charles' box, throwing that glare back into his eyes. Charles blinked and moved his fingers to partially-shield the bulb; instantly, he could see comfortably again, and what he saw was… What? He was riffling through a box, looking for a poison to, to—not exactly _kill_ a man he wasn't yet sure had gone beyond redemption, but what then? What kind of safety could Erik possibly expect at his hands?

"Oh, I remember this drug!" Beast exclaimed, although in a hushed sort of way. "We used this in our first mutant infertility tests."

"Your _what_?" Charles inquired, torn from his contemplation. He set down the bottle he'd been peering at.

"Mm, well, I suppose it's not really common knowledge, is it?" Beast hummed. Charles saw the green-gold gleam of the other mutant's retina in the scattered light from his own torch. "Essentially, the whole thing where mutants aren't adversely affected by radiation is a lie. Well, not an intentional one; Shaw wasn't exactly being scientific when he determined that we'd only benefit."

"Let me guess," Charles drawled. "It doesn't induce further, harmful mutations in our bodies—but it affects the performance of our reproductive organs?"

"Exactly," Beast confirmed. "Especially in males, since they have less body mass in the way to absorb and deflect radiation. Sort of, hmm, interferes with the signaling proteins in the membrane? As well as a few other effects, like abnormally shaped sperm, which is bad of course but much easier to overcome in the lab. The signaling, though, that's tough, and we only found out about it after investigating last year after recovery rates were lower than expected. It prevents fertilization pretty effectively."

"So when I said that we were at risk for rampant genetic drift, I was more right than I knew," Charles stated, although his attention had snagged on: _recovery rates were lower than expected_. As in, this was something that had been modeled and plotted—a little bit of statistical analysis to welcome in the post-apocalypse. It wasn't the fault of the scientists, of course, but that there had been the _need_ for that objective assessment of human life…

Well, and _mutant_ life, since those were different categories now.

"Indeed. It varies with exposure, of course. For instance, Magneto's always been out in the worst of it—don't tell anyone," Beast told him, in a gleeful tone of voice that clearly meant _tell everyone_, "but he's essentially sterile."

Charles frowned, picking through his box with half of his attention, letting the names on the labels filter down through his mind. It didn't seem fair, to mock Erik for something so beyond his control; certainly, of all the targets to choose from, it seemed the least relevant. "He must care about it, if he volunteered for testing."

"Possibly," Beast agreed, disinterest evident. "In any event, we needed mutants on the far ends of the spectrum. Of course, it doesn't stop these Brotherhood soldiers from exposing themselves to more radiation, but we can only advise them, not control them. Low-exposure mutants, on the other hand, are more difficult to come by…" His voice brightened over the _clink_ of glass. "Say, _you've_ been pretty isolated from everything—you should consider donating a sample!"

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Charles offered, "Maybe some other time."

"Hey, well, if you change your mind—any unused genetic material goes toward stem cell research or, if viable, is used for artificial fertilization. It _is_ your evolutionary imperative to pass on your genetics, after all. I've done it—I'm sure I have a few F1's out there, myself." There was a soft, rather mischievous chortle from Beast's shadow.

Charles, remembering again that Beast really was quite a bit younger than himself, resisted the urge to give in to a pained groan as he inevitably imagined a gaggle of fluffy blue toddlers clambering over some unfortunate family's furniture.

Perhaps Beast caught the edge of that thought, because Charles felt a wash of _smug_ from the other mutant. "You have to admit they'd be cute if they looked like me," he chided.

Now Charles _did_ groan. "You're _terrible_."

"Hey, so long as _I_ don't have to deal with them," Beast reasoned.

Charles snorted, and ducked his head down in case Beast could see his smile in the glow of the torch. He examined what appeared to be a bottle full of yellowish dust—some sort of dried and ground fungus, apparently—before dropping it back into its paper partition and closing the box. He reached up carefully, balancing it between his hands to slide it back onto the shelf above.

Charles dropped his hands to the rims of his chair and moved forward, casting back into his borrowed memories for the next likely spot to search. The torch rested between his knees, made dark to preserve its batteries.

He came to a junction in the shelves, and, minding his elbows, Charles turned into that corner. The back of one wheel smudged into the face of a box and he grimaced; why didn't they design these places to be more wheelchair-friendly? Granted, they would perhaps lose a row of storage, and, well, _no one_ really designed buildings to be navigable from a chair—but he couldn't believe that it would be easy for more than a single person to work on a given section of shelving even if they _did_ have full use of their legs.

Still, at least it was fairly well-organized; despite the time that had passed, Hannah's memories seemed to still be accurate, and Charles could appreciate the elegant beauty of an efficient filing system.

He glanced down to rescue his torch—it had slipped, somewhat, and leaned precariously down between his shins—when Charles saw a flare of light, not his own, through the racks of the shelves. He reached out an ember's trail of thought to ask Hannah if she'd had any luck, and found—his tongue stuck dry to the roof of his mouth—_nothing_. There was no one else there, except…

Except that of _course_ there was—Charles simply couldn't reach their mind.

They'd been found—or, at least, were about to be.

_Beast, leave now,_ Charles commanded, tucking his unlit torch back between his thighs and hurrying to push further into the greater darkness between the stacks of boxes. Not that it would hide him, of course—no, the bounce and sweep of the other's light would see to that. _We're not alone—get out of here, before they see you!_ And where was Hannah—he couldn't _find_ her—how did she always manage to _vanish_—

Beast, at least, was there, and was not a fool—he did not linger to replace the open box on the floor, or waste time asking Charles for clarification. He was already moving, slinking away on silent, bare feet; faster than any person should be and still so quiet.

Charles continued to creep toward the back of the room, away from the door as another light joined the first and then did not move from its post—someone had taken position at the door. _The door, Beast—!_

_I know,_ the other mutant growled, a crackling _fury_ blurring the sense from the words. He was trying already; attempting to work around the mobile light to take the stationary guard by surprise, thinking that with any luck, they wouldn't see his face; that they would be too stunned to register the mane of blue all roused up to twice his real size—

Charles saw through Beast's eyes, saw the darkness in all its muted, buzzing grays—quite hauntingly beautiful, if he ever got the chance to witness it again—and he watched as Beast swept past an aisle, and as he halted to press himself against the end of a shelf as the torchlight swept by. Charles could do no more than ride along as Beast rushed down an empty row, a helpless passenger as suddenly it _wasn't_ empty; there was another mutant there, a third intruder who did _not_ carry a light, could evidently see in the dark as well.

Beast's mind took an instant's measure of the man: thin and reedy, easily overwhelmed through sheer momentum. Beast would simply angle his shoulder to catch him in the chest, knock him over and then—well. Do what had to be done.

So Beast bent down as he ran and Charles could feel his lips pulled back into a silent _snarl_, could feel the steep slant of his ears, could feel… Could feel… Was that a _tongue_? Had that man just, just opened his _mouth_ and struck out with his—

Beast—and Charles, with him—felt the sting of its barb. For a moment the two of them together surged forward still; Beast's eyes were wide with the need to lash out, to hurt, to prove that he could not be so swiftly bested… But Charles knew, from his vantage, that Beast was moving on borrowed time; even as the leonine scientist pitched himself toward the other mutant Charles could feel him slowing; could see the sluggish gray fog moving in over the landscape of Beast's mind.

Charles fought it, or tried to—he drove his fingers into both his temples, squeezed his eyes shut, and _pushed_, urging those neurons to _fire_—and they did, thankfully, they _did_, because Beast was not after all dying—but so _slowly_. This was not a thing Charles could stop, and for a moment he had to marvel at it: _now_ this_ is a sedative I could use_—

Beast was not fast enough to outrun the numbness of the tranquilizer, no longer possessed the reflexes to adjust when the slimmer mutant stepped out of the way, and Charles resigned himself—he would have to make Beast forget again. Except that all of Charles' usual paths—that bit through the hippocampus that he liked so much—they were all clouding over now; retreating inaccessible into the mists and he had to make do, accomplish what he could with what remained.

There was no time to construct a falsehood, and anyway—what could Charles offer? He took threads, from here and there, weaving together a blankness; a glaring _emptiness_ of possibility, inviting exploration. He could not make Beast forget, not really, but he could give the scientist a better lie—the _best_ lie: one of Beast's creation, to convince himself of once he woke and wondered.

The smartest people were always the best at self-deception.

_I'm sorry, my friend_, Charles whispered, as he slipped from Beast's mind. For a moment he saw the face of the guard through Beast's eyes, leaning down in cocky curiosity, and felt—well—Beast had known the risks. The two of them were not, after all, so young as they were back before when they'd thought that Darwin had died and they had realized that even the most elegant plans were built to fail.

But now Charles had to worry about himself—because what could he do, against these people? Have a reasoned conversation with them over a cup of tea, explaining how he was really quite justified? No, that—that was _not_ a viable solution, and he needed to _leave_, but… But _where_? He was trapped here, trapped and the guards were _speaking_ to each other, calling out from too nearby:

"I got one, but not the guy we're looking for."

"A friend, or did we just get lucky?"

"Mm, 's'wearing a lab coat; could be with the professor."

Charles moved slowly, _slowly_ deeper into the room; where could he go? He couldn't exactly hide in the corner—in the old days he might have considered climbing the shelves, but then he'd never had to deal with this in the old days, had he?

But Charles' hands wouldn't keep still, and finally he _looked_ where he was going, and almost laughed—_no;_ quiet—because he could see the baleful red light over the freezer—the _walk-in_ freezer—and if there was anywhere that they might not check, might overlook, that would be it.

So Charles went faster, and caught himself into a stop at the handle of the freezer—backed away to pull it open and was grateful when no light rushed out to meet him. There were plastic drapes hanging over the doorway to keep the cold in, and as Charles shoved through them he heard: "say, did you hear—"

Then the rubber seal of the door sucked closed behind him and Charles hesitated; his lungs burned with his first breath. How cold _was_ it? He could see, vaguely, in the dim red light; the shelves of ice-licked bottles like cave formations, solemn shapes stumbled upon by clumsy human eyes ill-adapted for anything less than daylight. The interiors of Charles' nostrils went dry.

There was a light-switch next to the door's release lever, and for a moment Charles had a mad, desperate desire to turn it on—a claustrophobic need to _see_, to reassure himself of the world's boundaries—but no; no, he wasn't safe here, not really, and they might still look—

Charles moved deeper into the freezer, around one of the racks of frozen samples, where his chair fitted neatly against the wall. There was barely a finger's thickness of space to either side of him and he tore his skin away from the dull icy grit of the metal. He wasn't _well_ hidden, by any means, but he wasn't in the open at least.

Settling in to wait for as long as he could, Charles drew his legs up to his chest and hugged his arms around them, tucking his chin and nose between his knees and wedging his fingers in the press of thigh and calf. _Lower surface-area-to-volume ratio,_ his mind whispered. _Slow heat loss; delay hypothermia as long as possible._

The edges of Charles' ears seared. He regretted, for an instant, that his hair had been cut recently and no longer lay over them.

And then—though he desperately wanted to believe that it was only the rattle of the heat exchange overhead—he heard the door handle grasped from outside, tested, and then… The rubber peeled away from the doorframe and the red light was drowned out by gray, filtering in past the dark person-shaped outline Charles could see over the curve of his knee.

The man raised a hand and parted the plastic drapes; they slapped together in the sluggish cold and Charles heard the soft hiss of breath as the cold air hit the other's throat. There was a hard rapid staccato in his ears, horrifyingly loud, and for a dizzying moment Charles heard it as his heartbeat; urged himself: _calm, calm, stay calm_. But then—no, it was his _watch_, where it rested just outside of his coat sleeve, and the steady cascade of the unwinding mainspring was out _there_ for anyone to hear.

Surely the guard must have felt its prick in his ear over the hum of the freezer, but Charles dare not move to muffle the timepiece because the man was looking around now, flashing the beam of his torch over the private glittering darkness of the shelves and bottles and he would surely see the movement—no, he _must_ see Charles, because he was sitting _right there_, separated by no more than a thin frame of steel and glass. Charles could certainly see _him_ clearly; the gleam of his eyes in the sudden reflected light. _So close_.

And yet… And yet, those eyes moved over Charles without pausing, without even _registering_; maybe because the guard didn't recognize Charles' shape with his legs up, or maybe because he didn't really _expect_ to see Charles there and simply wanted to get out of the cold. Either way, the guard flicked his cone of light about the small metal room without any notice for the geneticist huddled less than two meters away and then left, letting the plastic drapes fall back into place and shutting the door behind him.

The latch clacked home and Charles still did not move; barely even breathed, though what did cross his lips crackled dry against his skin. He stretched out his mind, through the door—because he _could_ feel through the door, vaguely; it wasn't shielded but there was no one to _shield_, or at least that was how it seemed. Where was Beast, now that he had been drugged and subdued? He should have been visible, at least. And where was _Hannah_? Charles hadn't spoken to her since—well, not for a _while_—and where had she gone? Had both been captured? Could—could Hannah have betrayed… But no, he would have _sensed_ that.

Charles exhaled, finally releasing the unruffled air from the depths of his lungs. What about _himself_? Yes, it had all gone rather disastrously wrong—clearly someone had been sent to check on him in his rooms, or the guard at the top of the stairs hadn't been as lax as he'd appeared—but Charles himself had not truly been caught yet.

He shuddered, trembling out from his clenched abdomen to the points of his elbows. Charles was cold, yes; very cold, but—but he might have to let Beast take the fall for this. If Charles could get away, back up to his lab maybe, and stay to fight another day—_shouldn't_ he? Even though… Even though Beast might be punished?

The twist in Charles' stomach had nothing to do with the temperature this time. What _would_ happen to Beast? Covering his memories had been complicated, without a fully conscious mind to work with; it had been _art_, but that didn't mean that it had been _effective_. Frost might well notice them no matter what cunning ruse Beast could convince himself of. Even if she _didn't_—well, what then? He was a known sympathizer; out after hours in a place he wasn't meant to be. There was no way Beast could escape back to his work after nothing more than a few unkind words.

But he had known the risks; had volunteered for them, and had confidence in Charles. That confidence demanded, now, that Charles honor it—that he try what he _could_, no matter its efficacy. He would have to make an attempt to return, uncaptured, to his workstation.

In any event, Charles could not remain in the freezer.

He had begun to shiver in earnest now; the night previous did not compare to this cold, this greater stillness of molecules, and its seductive lethargy pulled at the heat of Charles' cells until the minuscule capillaries of his skin closed down in protest, hoarding warm blood at his core. Charles could not feel his ears anymore, and even the arch of his cheeks had gone numb.

Regardless of what might be waiting on the other side of that door, Charles had to move.

He unfolded from his tight ball with stiff joints, frowning at the thought: _is this a sign of getting old_? Except that was ridiculous—he wasn't quite thirty yet; he couldn't start thinking that way, especially not _now_. In any event, he _wasn't_ frozen, not really, but he certainly felt the creak of his knees as he lowered his feet back to their rests, and his elbows complained as he pushed against his hand rims and hobbled his way over to the door.

Charles depressed the long steel rod that released the latch from within the freezer, and then—slowly, but still much too fast for his liking—he eased the door open, rubber seal peeling back with a noise of stubborn suction as the plastic flaps parted reluctantly around his arm. When there was a line of black down the edge of the door, Charles waited; he cast out his thoughts again, just in case, but those waters were just as dark and empty as those in his own mind.

There was nothing for it; the only way he would know whether it was safe or not was to actually venture out, to risk capture. And really, it wasn't as if he _himself_ were in any danger—his cause, perhaps, but not Charles himself. He felt sure that Erik would not allow that; that even if the rest of the Brotherhood didn't know the _nature_ of their relationship, they might guess the _extent_ of it, and know better than to cause him harm.

With that in mind, Charles pushed out into the main of the storage room and looked around with his own eyes: there were no lights, no people that he could see.

He appeared to be quite alone. Still… Still, Charles was cautious as he ventured out between the shelves. He kept quiet, straining his eyes to peer into the shadows around him. There appeared to be nobody there, but Charles did not trust that fact; he did not indulge his arms' desire to wrap around his torso, and he clenched his teeth tightly together so that they did not clatter under the convulsion of his muscles as the blood returned to his skin to find its capillaries cold.

Charles felt sure that there would be more searchers nearby; it was not a matter of escaping capture so much as controlling where Charles allowed himself to be found, so it was with a patient creeping caution that Charles went to the storage room's door, glancing only briefly over at the box Beast had left out before their interruption, and opened it. As best he could, Charles leaned out and looked into the office space that lay between himself and the hallway. Again, he seemed to be alone, and he went untroubled from there to the frosted window of the hallway door.

When Charles opened _that_ and still did not see or hear anyone, he felt a curling tendril of doubt, almost bordering on hurt—had they really moved on so easily, and so quickly? Could they have underestimated him because of the chair? Were they occupied with Beast's capture?

He could stay in the main part of medical storage, Charles knew—he didn't _have_ to leave, now that he was no longer at risk of freezing. He could stay in the storage room until morning, if he needed to; he could leave before any of the workers arrived and then… Deal with the stairs, somehow.

No. He could probably manage the stairs better now, when the likelihood of passersby was less. Charles had considered it previously—had once considered crawling _down_ the steps, to escape, but…

Charles wavered. He was on the ground floor _now_. Couldn't he leave? Hadn't that been his intention, back then?

_No_, he told himself. _You've done too much to give up now._ And anyway: there was Beast to consider.

Charles ventured out into the hall, cringing a little as his wheels again dug into the rich brown carpeting. Everything was as he remembered except that now he was on his own, moving with impatient wariness. He paused, once, when something on the wall caught his attention; his outstretched fingers hovered near to brushing over a long, thin red smear on the wall—almost a string of it; a perfect line of trajectory. It seemed too bright and unreal to be blood, surely—and anyway, Charles had been in a hurry, previously; it'd probably been there before. Probably. He hoped.

_Stairs_, Charles murmured to himself. He had to reach the stairs. If it was blood—if it was fresh—then, well, he wasn't sure that he wanted to know _whose_ it was, or why. No distractions.

He saw no one the rest of the way, even when his chair again coasted over tile, and Charles wanted more and more to turn around, to go back to the storage room and wait there. Where _was_ everyone? Who was supposed to be looking for him? And everything had been going so _well_…

Before Charles could change his mind, the stairway loomed before him like the spine of some great reclining animal. He could not help but move into that empty space; he could not help but pull up next to the bottom step and, with something of an ungainly tumble, fall down onto it hip-first.

Charles knocked at the joints of his chair until it folded, then fumbled his fist around one of the supports of the arm rest, tugging experimentally to be sure of his grip. Then, gingerly, Charles lifted himself up to the next step—_pulled_ at the wheelchair—heaved himself up to the _second_ step—

Charles panted through a grin as he perched nearly halfway up the stairs. He could do it; he could climb a flight of stairs unassisted. His one real cage, essentially _useless_ now, and how much easier would it be to go _down_? All he had to do was reach the lab—he could claim that he'd never left, that they'd missed him somehow—he only had a little ways farther to go—

But then Charles heard the clack of brisk footsteps on tile, and he could not hurry fast enough to avoid seeing those shoes come into view beneath the stairwell ceiling. Another pair of shoes—boots, really—padded along shortly behind and soon enough Charles was smiling awkwardly down at Skink and Zeus as they gazed up the stairs at him. Neither of them returned the expression—or at least, not kindly.

"Oh, hello," Charles offered as they started to climb toward him, one along either wall. Skink wore a helmet, he noticed, and Zeus—Zeus was using his electricity to generate a shield, but not very well; Charles would be able to overcome it in a minute or two, maybe use the one to take out the other—take Skink's helmet off, erase his memory before they took him back—

"So, here we are, then. It's good to meet you here," Charles continued as they drew closer. "I suppose you've come to escort me back to my rooms?" And that was all right, really; it would give Charles time to melt through Zeus' mental barrier—to turn him against Skink and escape—except… _Except_…

"You're not here to take me back, are you," Charles stated, and was proud of how little his voice wavered as the pair closed in.

"Sure we are, love," Zeus reassured him absently, bringing his forefinger and thumb up to suck between his lips. They emerged gleaming wet and Charles leaned away. _Just another minute_, he thought; _give me another minute…_ "Sure we are."

Then Zeus' hand wrapped around Charles' forehead, finger and thumb slick on either temple, and there was _pain_—astonishing pain piercing right through the bone—and a sound, like a struck bell that went on and on, until there was nothing else.

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	24. Chapter 24

Hello all! Thank you again for reading and since you have all been very kind I wanted to give you a head's up that the next update miiiiight end up taking a while, or being rather short, because FINALS. And I have soooo much homework to get done at the last minute, like the procrastinating procrastinator that I am! But rest assured I _will_ continue updating this, because I have some cool ideas for the next chapters. ;)

Beta'd by idioticonion and the incredibly talented Subtilior, who flavors her Scotch with the tears of men.

**Warning**: Violence! Explicit sex! Possibly… _Slightly_ above R? D: Well, I feel as if I would be doing you a disservice if I edited out the sex, because honestly? I trust you to be mature enough to handle it.

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**lxxxvii.**

Charles had a fleeting impression—blood rushing through his skull, pooling there, _swirling_—god, was he going to be sick? There was something hard jammed into his gut. _A shoulder_, he realized; _someone's shoulder_.

Was he going to be sick?

But now he was sitting—when had _that_ happened? This wasn't good—and Charles couldn't remember: _had_ he been sick? Would he feel better if he had—if he _did_? He probed his tongue around his mouth. It didn't _taste_ like that way, although that… _That_ was the unmistakable tang of a bitten lip.

His head felt no less untethered than it had when he'd been dangling over someone's shoulder, and now it _hurt_ as well; when he moved his neck Charles felt his chin roll over his clavicle. Then his head thumped into a wall and for a moment everything jarred to a _stop_—

"_Jesus_, how much juice did you _give_ him?" a voice murmured nearby. It was unexpectedly loud; Charles cracked open his eyelids and peered out from them, squinting. Someone crouched over him, a dark blur; Charles tipped his head a little, facing them more fully, and the blur sharpened into something like focus.

Oh, right. It was Skink—Charles remembered now. He was close enough to see the uneven patches of black scales, a rough mosaic over smooth skin, and there was that damn _helmet_ again.

"Look, see, he's coming out of it," Skink said, without moving his lips. Charles frowned; no, someone _else_ was speaking now. Why couldn't he _think_…? "He's going to be _fine_."

What was _wrong_ with…

Charles snapped his head up; the lights were off. Hadn't they been on just a few seconds ago? _…Oh god,_ he realized, curling down until his forehead rested on his knee. _I'm suffering the neurological symptoms of electrocution._

_No_, another part of his mind corrected, _Electric _shock_. Electrocution only refers to an incidence of fatality caused by…_

Charles heard, muffled, as if from another room: "The coast is never going to _be_ more clear so I suggest we move _now_."

The symptoms… Symptoms of electrical shock. Charles drew his eyebrows tightly together and then ground them into the hard knob of his patella. There was actually some muscle on his legs now—no longer were they the sad, withered things he had imported from Canada, but they were still thin and of course his knees would always be knobby and hard, except for the rubbery bindings of tendon…

_The symptoms_, he repeated to himself, like a slap—_They include… Headache…_ Which he had; Charles pressed his head into his knee again until it hurt almost enough to distract from the slow _throb_ of his skull.

_Nausea_… Well. Suffice to say, Charles was fairly certain now that vomiting would not allow him to feel better—rather, he was sure that if he started, he might not stop for a while.

_Fatigue_, he mused, and rocked his forehead back and forth over his knee, considering. Perhaps not so much, but then there was… "Confusion," Charles muttered to himself, into the warm fabric of his trousers. "Short-term memory loss, and maybe, in severe cases… Delirium."

He didn't _feel_ delirious—but then again, how would he know?

Charles picked himself up and set his back against the wall; opened his eyes against the gyrating pain lurking behind his retina. The room was still dark, and he didn't think that any more time had passed. He lowered his hands down to the floor, laid them flat and _squeezed_—carpet, but _thin_ carpet. Concrete underneath. The air smelled musty, as if it periodically mildewed and dried.

He couldn't remember anywhere in the mansion like that.

His second realization: his hands weren't tied, and—Charles felt for his ankles—neither were his legs. That was good, right? But—he peered around the room, at all the lurking shadows—he didn't see his chair. They—Skink and Zeus, he reminded himself—must have left it behind when they'd taken him.

A bitter taste rose in Charles' throat, followed quickly by a warning spasm of his stomach; they'd taken his _chair_. His one mode of transport—essentially a _part_ of him—and it was _gone_, unreachable. Even _Erik_ had promised never to do that to him; had assured Charles that, no matter what else he might take from the telepath, he would never leave him without movement.

_Erik_… sighed Charles' mind. He was reasonably sure, by now, that his captors weren't working for the Brotherhood's leader; in fact, quite the opposite. Shocked into unconsciousness, taken from his chair, manhandled into a room and _left_ there in the dark while they deliberated nearby—for he could still hear the vague noises of their talking—no, Charles did not think that they had come to rescue him from himself. At least, however… They did not seem to want him dead.

_Yet_, his mind whispered, and Charles exhaled shakily through his nose. Erik would not like that. Erik would find him; Erik would…

Charles blinked into the light, startled, but… His eyes were not as dazzled as he'd thought they would be, and there, in front of him, stood that duo: Skink and Zeus.

"—interested in your pleasantries, Xavier," Zeus concluded, and Charles frowned at him. _What_? His confusion must have been evident, because the man scoffed and turned away. "Useless," he declared, disgusted. "Useless to talk to him now."

"Yes, I'm rather concerned about that, _now that you mention it_," Skink snapped, narrowing his eyes behind his spectacles. The glasses were crooked, Charles noticed—they didn't fit well within the confines of the helmet, which was slightly too small for his head. _Too small_, Charles repeated to himself, frowning. Too small…?

"There's no point in having him if he can't hold a thought in his head for more than a minute," Skink scolded, and Zeus dismissed his concern with a roll of his shoulders.

"It'll wear off," he assured the other mutant. "It always does."

"Excuse me," Charles interrupted, and was alarmed by how thick and—and _unwell_ his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and continued, enunciating carefully: "Just _what_, exactly, _are_ you intending to do with me? I can't help but think that it is somewhat of my concern."

"I'm sure you've already figured it out for yourself, Professor," Skink stated, only barely glancing at him.

"I'm sure I haven't," Charles protested. "I'm a telepath, not omniscient, you know." But he inhaled slowly and looked around; now that the lights were on, he could see that there were two duffel bags on the floor outside of his reach, packed to bursting. One wall of the room was studded with hooks, from which several ratty-looking coats hung, and there was a line of use-softened boots underneath. They were going somewhere; that was clear enough.

He turned his attention back to Skink and his vision swam dizzily along the way. Charles pressed his eyelids closed, blinking a few times, and found himself with his chin resting sharp on his sternum.

Charles yanked his head back up and his stomach churned; he screwed his eyes shut tight against the searing _pain_ driving into his temples. It took a moment, but soon it subsided again, became… _Manageable_, if not especially comfortable. He peered around the room; Skink was rummaging through the larger of the two bags while Zeus stood at the door, arms crossed and tense with impatience as he stared at his companion.

"Where are you going?" Charles asked, and _god_, it sounded so _moist_. He swallowed, and for a moment thought he might choke; he tried again and it went more smoothly. "Where are you—taking me?"

Skink stood up, arms dropping to his sides, and _glared_ at Zeus, who now wore a small, twisted smile. The scaled mutant then turned to look at Charles, expression frank with exasperation. "I _told_ you already."

"Obviously it didn't take," Charles observed, leaning back against the wall. "What did you tell me, again?"

"I'm not telling you again until I know that you'll remember. If," Skink directed another glare at Zeus, who grinned, "you ever _start_ again."

Zeus shrugged. "I'm not worried."

"I can tell," Skink replied, coldly. "Trust _you_ to go and fry the one part of him we really need."

"Oh, you want me for my telepathy," Charles commented, voice flat. "I can see why you'd have so much difficulty explaining that to me."

"Quiet," Skink ordered, without looking over at him. He crouched down over the bag again, and Charles saw clothing in there—_tools_; camping tools? Very plain. Military. Coated dull green.

"We should get a move on," Zeus grumbled, glowering over from the doorframe. "My contingent will be waiting, by now, and it's only a matter of time—"

"No," Skink snapped. "We need to wait for an escort. We can't carry _him_ around _and_ deal with security."

"But we can't _stay_ here; the entire _hive's_ been kicked into action now and it won't be long until we have to deal with them _anyway_. It won't be long until we have to deal with _him_," Zeus hissed, and Charles understood that he, himself, was no longer the "him" under discussion.

With a huff of irritation, Skink threw himself to his feet. "They're _your_ people. If you're so impatient then yell at _them_ for being late."

Charles cleared his throat. "How long have you had this plan, anyway? If my guess is correct, not long at all. Did you get the idea when you saw that helmet sitting on the table?"

Skink sneered. "Planning ahead, sadly, isn't a virtue where telepaths are involved. The opportunity presented itself, so we took advantage of it." He walked over to Charles; loomed over him. "I must say, you did complicate things by not being in your rooms like you were supposed to, but at least we didn't have to go far. I suppose you'll be relieved to know, since you were so desperate to get away, that you'll be leaving Magneto for good. If you remember, of course."

Charles tipped his head back to stare up at the other mutant, jaw tight; in one corner of his mind, he was reaching out—out to Zeus' mental shield, where it buzzed and crackled at the edge of his awareness. It was only a matter of finding the correct—the correct _resonance_, to break through. Of being subtle, so that Zeus didn't have warning. That part of his mind sidled up to Zeus'; pressed up against it and _hummed_, testing the barriers.

Aloud, Charles replied, "Is that what this is, then? You're rebelling against Magneto? Are you sure that's something you can afford to do?"

Skink's eyes glittered; they were human, like much of his skin, but they seemed somehow still _reptilian_ in their calculation. "By ourselves, of course not; but with _you_… We can make an army."

_Just another minute_, Charles told himself; his eyelids drooped and he snapped them open again. His vision wouldn't focus, and he faltered against the wall of Zeus' thoughts; almost tripped right into that electrified shell. _No, no, not now_, he mumbled in his mind, and _surged_ toward concentration; focused hard on meeting Skink's gaze. On the crystalline sparkle of his spectacles. Hung onto them, like a rope tossed to—to—_a drowning man_, his subconscious offered helpfully, and Charles rolled his eyes internally. _Fine, sure, that works._

"That's… Very optimistic of you. And tell me; how do you intend on controlling _my_ army, in that case…?" Charles asked, hoping that his squinting appeared inquisitive and not… As if he were trying to work his telepathy on Zeus, or as if he were maybe about to pass out again—which he _wasn't_.

The scaled mutant _hmmph_ed. "If we control _you_, we control your powers. Easy enough."

"And how do you plan on doing that?" Charles barely heard himself; too much of his attention was bleeding out elsewhere—into that part of his mind that was still humming, humming away alongside Zeus' shields, trying to blend in. _Why is this so _difficult, he asked himself, and immediately heard the reply, like an echo: _Fatigue, confusion, delirium_…

Skink's answer came from somewhere outside: "Well, you're just an academic, after all—I'm sure we'll find a way—"

_There_. He was in; Charles sank through Zeus' thoughts and alighted on: _anger, impatience, fear_—not so unfamiliar really—and _pulled_, drew those emotions along on a curled finger of power and held them against: _snooty pompous fucking_ lizard—

And then Charles retreated to watch as, behind Skink's back, Zeus suddenly _scowled_ and picked himself up from the wall, uncrossing his arms. There came the crackle of electricity as sparks arced between the man's fingers, danced over his skin—

Without turning to look, Skink drew back his scaled hand and _slapped_ Charles.

The telepath only just caught himself on an elbow and then hung, for a moment, panting; his ears rang. He no longer felt in any danger of passing out but his stomach _twisted_ and he focused on controlling it with a grim determination. Somewhere, he could hear Zeus swearing in shock and fury, but Charles couldn't _feel_ him; had slipped out from his head.

Rough fingers wrapped around Charles' jaw and pulled him upright; Skink knelt before him, face drawn in tight lines around the mosaic patches of his scales. Charles kept his own expression neutral; not innocent, perhaps, but… Inoffensive.

Skink held up his human hand—the smooth-skinned one, without claws. "You're a geneticist, right?" he stated. "I'm sure you know what I am."

Charles tried to pull his chin out of the other mutant's grasp, but his head was pressed into the wall and he couldn't move away. He moistened his lips, tracing the edges of the scales with his eyes. "You're a chimera," he pronounced, finally. "The product of two genetically distinct embryos fused together into a single transgenic organism." Charles paused, then offered: "You really are quite extraordinary."

"Sure," Skink commented, disinterested. His voice was a low, dangerous purr. "Neither of my mutations are especially useful in combat, or I wouldn't be… Have been… The Brotherhood's _accountant_. This—" he shook his scaled hand, and therefore Charles' head— "doesn't cover enough of my body to protect me, and _this_—" he waved the fingers of his smooth hand— "isn't strong enough to do any _serious_ damage."

"Except…" Skink brought that hand up to Charles' face and set his first two fingers very gently to either side of the telepath's nose, just beneath his eyes; Charles blinked and twitched back slightly, but did not look away. "…For when I'm very close," Skink finished, and pulled his hand away sharply.

It wasn't the _pain_—no, that was dull, and nothing compared to the headache—but something in Charles sinuses _gave_ and then there was something else _tickling_ down through his nasal cavity, along the back of his throat, and Charles _gagged_—smelled blood—flung himself forward and coughed. There was blood—blood in his mouth, in his _throat_, and now—he drew breath through his lips—seeping down through his _nose_ and ah, yes, _there_ it was: a drop—two—_more_ pattered down onto his trousers, one after the other.

"It's only a slight affinity for water," Skink explained, somewhere above him. "Not much, but, well… If I rupture the veins in your eyes, you can be sure they won't work any more. After all, we really only need your brain and an ear for you to hear out of—the rest is expendable."

The blood wasn't a stream, but as Charles hung his head—watching the dark material of his trouser stain even darker—it didn't slow, either. He curled down, and rested his head against his knee again, feeling something like—like a _sloshing_ in his nasal cavity, and then a warm damp spreading out along his thigh where his face rested. He didn't doubt Skink—didn't doubt that the other mutant cared about his wellbeing only as far as Charles' usefulness as a telepath went; that he would, if he had to, fulfill that threat.

_What have I gotten myself into_? Charles asked himself, but of course—he couldn't have known, although maybe… Maybe he could have guessed, if he'd been more diligent.

"—know how you expect me to stay in here with that—"

"—_will_ do this, you don't have a choice—"

Charles' head hurt. He'd noticed before, of course, because it was inescapable, but now… Now there almost wasn't anything else; just the hard slide of his patella over his forehead and _pain_. It came and went; it washed over him in waves. Charles imagined himself as a shell—no, as a snail, tucked away inside hard calcium carbonate and refusing to emerge until the world went still, rocking with each pass of the water. _Maybe I_ do_ have a touch of delirium_…

Charles woke for a moment; started to struggle. Someone had a hold of his head, was _doing_ something to him, something that _hurt_, and as he slapped out with his hands Charles thought, _my eyes, they're taking my_ eyes—

But no; there was some swearing, soft, close to him; a rasped, "Stay _still_, damn it," and then a long line of _friction_, of _tearing_ up through his nose and Charles couldn't _breathe_, it was all plugged somehow and he couldn't smell but all he tasted was _blood_—

Zeus' voice, farther away, observed, "Oh, so _I'm_ the one who doesn't know how to control his powers, huh?"

"Be _quiet_—it's not _that_ much blood and you know it. This is all _your_ fault; you were _so_ eager to electrocute him—"

"It's only called electrocution if he's dead," Zeus pointed out. "Besides, I've done it to loads of people, he's the first one who's gone all—all _wrong_ like this; it's probably a telepath thing. He's probably walking around half-fried anyway."

But then it was dark, and still. Charles brought a hand up to his face and felt around, expecting a gaping hole, surprised when—no—there was his nose, just as protruding and irritatingly bumpy as ever, except that—oh. There was something—two somethings—stuffed up his nostrils; fabric, it seemed.

He pinched the ends between his fingers and tugged, experimentally; _hissed_ between his teeth because _ah, that hurts, doesn't it_. The skin must have inflamed around the cotton and wedged it firmly in place, but… At least everything was still intact.

Charles tried to sit up; wavered and almost fell until he propped himself up with a hand. Even so, everything _tilted_ alarmingly, and he inhaled fast and shallow through his mouth. His breath, where it stirred back up through into his nasal cavity, was _foul_, almost _carrion_. How long had it been…?

"Hello…?" he croaked, voice whiny to his ears without the resonance of his nose, and swallowed thickly. _Blood_—but at least it wasn't _fresh_, really, anymore; he wasn't still bleeding.

Staring blankly into the darkness of the room, Charles thought: _I can't stay here_. No, because if he stayed—then there was a good chance that he might end up injured further, whether by Skink and Zeus' hands or by accident, and as much as Charles didn't want to stay under Erik's control… He shuddered to imagine himself trapped somewhere else, under another tyrant—an _incompetent_ tyrant at that—coerced and… And tortured? …_Tortured_ into ravaging the minds of unlucky conscripts for their army.

No, that… That did not bear thinking about, so Charles leaned over onto his arm and shuffled over a little—he thought he remembered a table over there; yes, he could see its shadow. He half-crawled, half-dragged himself toward it, and soon his hair brushed against the wood of a chair.

Charles reached up and groped around for the back of it, and then for the table, and _pulled_, clambering up to his knees; then, shaking, _trembling_, to his feet. He wasn't standing, really—he leaned heavily against the table, almost sitting on it, and found the outline of the door with his eyes: the white edges of a rectangle, unbroken except for the black of the hinges.

Not far. Not all that far; if he was fast, maybe… Maybe he could make it over there, catch himself on the wall, open the door—then, well…

Did he _really_ need his eyes?

Charles made a soft, involuntary noise in his throat. _Yes!_ his mind railed at him, _Yes of_ course_ you need your eyes!_ But the truth was… He didn't, really. He could… He could see through _other_ people's eyes, if he needed to. In the future.

_You're quite possibly delirious_, another part of Charles' mind told him. _You can't make judgments like that now, not like this_.

He drew breath, long and juddering. "Be quiet," Charles replied, on the exhale, and _threw_ himself toward the door—

—Took three marvelous, _glorious_ steps—

—And then his knee wobbled, quivered, and _gave_ and Charles crumpled to the ground with a betrayed gasp and lay folded over his legs, staring sightlessly at the carpet rough under his palms. What had he been expecting? That despite the fact that he could barely walk on crutches, despite how he was currently _weak_ and sick, that he would simply get up and magically be able to _walk_?

_You're a fool, Xavier,_ his mind sneered, and Charles closed his eyes, resting his chin on crossed wrists. He puffed air through his cheeks and the pressure built up behind his nose, pushing on his blocked nostrils. They throbbed, and the swelling seemed to go into his sinuses, too, merging seamlessly with the bruise across his cheek and into his headache. His entire _face_ hurt, but more than that—it made him feel sluggish and sticky. Slow.

_Where are you when I need you, Erik?_ Charles asked, and reached out, but his power only coiled around the room, nudging at the walls for a way out—and even if he _could_ find Erik, he couldn't get through the helmet. And of course—he had chosen this night specifically _because_ Erik would be gone.

_How silly of me was that_, he thought faintly, sinking further to the floor. Well. He would simply have to try harder, next time…

A boot prodded at Charles' ribs, and he woke again. His throat tingled as if he'd just recently groaned, and he looked around for the owner of the boot; ah, there. Zeus stood over him, surveying Charles' sprawled body with a raised eyebrow.

"Feeling adventurous?" Zeus asked, and without waiting for an answer bent down, seized Charles in a vice-like grip around his upper arm, and pulled. "Up you go," he grunted, and without any more warning than that set his shoulder into Charles' stomach and pushed upright, lifting the telepath with him.

Charles' eyes went wide and he held his breath against the sharp _spike_ of nausea, and he could see, vaguely, his own pale hands splayed flat against Zeus' leather jacket; could see himself struggling, even if he himself had made no conscious decision to do so.

Blunt fingers jammed themselves deep into the junction of Charles' femur and tibia and pain flashed down both of those bones; he froze. "Wriggly bastard," the chest he hung over rumbled. "Surprisingly heavy for a guy who only uses half of his body."

Charles started at a metal stud inches from his nose, embedded in the leather. _Metal_; if only—

No. He was going to have to save _himself_; he couldn't rely on—on the very person he'd been trying to harm. He'd have to risk—risk _being_ harmed, in turn, but… But it was something Charles _had_ to do—

"—Got him secured? Don't know where your damn escort is—"

"Stuff it, lizard," Zeus growled, unaware of Charles at the edge of his mind again, looking in—bracing himself, because he didn't know if he could concentrate well enough, even if he ground his fingers into his temple hard enough to bruise—which he _couldn't_.

_So scattered_, Charles mused, and felt himself begin to drift again—_no, come_ back—he had to do this now; had to, before there were others, before they left the mansion.

He heard the door open, and then… Silence. But not, _not_ the silence of unconsciousness.

Charles turned his mind away from Zeus' and looked out, tripped and fell into another mind—he felt a _shock_ of recognition. _Oh hello, Azazel_, Charles whispered, and gazed through the teleporter's eyes to see: himself, or rather, well… His backside, really, slung over Zeus' shoulder, and both of _those_ men with their eyes wide with surprise, staring back at Azazel and… And Charles couldn't quite feel for whoever Azazel stood next to, although he was _there_, he didn't wear a helmet—but Charles didn't get the chance to look because he could see himself slip from Zeus' shoulder, could _feel_ himself slide, and then—

All the air left Charles' lungs and his vision snapped away from his eyes; all of his bones seemed to have crashed into each other, but still he squinted up to watch as Zeus flared in a shower of sparks, listened to the crackle, _smelled_ the searing air. Electricity flashed past his face and he realized that _he_ was the closest to that mutant, and in danger of being shocked again.

Charles heaved himself over and rolled away; finally saw the other man that Azazel was with and his mind insisted: _bear_. But no, he appeared human enough—_bear_, his mind repeated—but he had _claws_; sharp black claws at the ends of his fingers and sharp _teeth_ bared in a snarl. He had a mane of pale hair and his eyes were dark with nothingness but glittered with a horrible _intelligence_; too much intelligence for something so savage.

Charles peered beyond them for a third figure but saw no one. _Erik_? he wondered, and reached out to feel with his mind—but of course he wouldn't be able to find him. Of course not. It had been a long time since he'd been able to.

Azazel vanished in a rustle and a wreath of smoke and Charles blinked; remembered: _oh, yes_—there were more serious matters at hand. He frowned at the spot where Azazel had been and saw the feral man leap at Zeus, clawed fingers readied for gouging.

Then red hands seized Charles' lapels, dragged him up, and an arm wrapped tight around his torso—there was an instant of insubstantiality and then _gravity_, a terrible _squeeze_ all inward, crushing Charles as if he had to fit through the narrowest seam in the fabric of the universe, and then—

They re-emerged in the quiet of the hallway, and Charles hung from Azazel's arms as he emptied the contents of his stomach over the tile. Azazel leaned away as delicately as he could while still holding onto the telepath.

"Sorry," Charles gurgled, and fumbled for Azazel's jacket, squirming around to meet the teleporter's startled blue eyes, to assure him that he was, in fact, sorry.

"It is nothing," Azazel murmured softly, bringing his hand up to cradle the back of Charles' skull, seeming at a loss. "You do not need to apologize."

Charles blinked at him; peered through the stinging of his eyes at Azazel. "No," he explained, in a rush: "No, I mean, I'm sorry—the other night—the coatroom—"

"There is no need," Azazel assured him, pulling Charles' head down to his shoulder. The telepath closed his eyes and breathed in through his mouth, tasting cigarette smoke. Azazel's voice spoke near his ear; not smooth, but close enough to bring the memory of smooth. "He is nearby—I brought him here from Virginia—he will be here soon…"

.

.

.

**lxxxviii.**

Charles could feel the back-and-forth swing of steps, knew that he was being carried again, but—not over someone's shoulder, this time. His cheek rested against the scratchy front of a jacket, warm and firm. He turned his face into it and tried to sniff, almost panicked when he couldn't breathe—

A hand that had been braced on Charles' arm now circled it and squeezed deliberately, twice, and released. He heard a soft, furtive hiss of _shhhh_; felt it tease over his skin.

Charles relaxed.

He heard a voice, female and ornery: "For fuck's sake, Charles, stop pawing at me or so help me I will _give_ you a reason to struggle—"

Charles frowned, and realized—_oh_. He seemed to be lashing out rather aggressively, didn't he? Without opening his eyes, he stilled, and someone took hold of his wrist; pressed fingers to it, and waited. _Don't make them wait long_, he told his heart, and sank down, under the waters.

He lay anchored, heavy at the bottom of an ocean—in the coastal margin, perhaps, amidst the kelp—a rocky bottom, perfect for algal holdfasts—and his brain was a cold stone cradled in the living heat of a small hand. Whose was it? Charles roused, and sent a fishing-line tendril winding up around those fingers, over the wrist, along arm and elbow and shoulder and found himself in the bright tidal pool of a young girl's mind.

Charles watched for a little while, hiding in the crevices; he could see the ripples of his face through her eyes and he didn't look _that_ bad, really; not as bad as he'd thought. There was a bit of blood around his nose, which itself looked a bit inflamed, and there was a dark bruise on the left side of his face. He was also very pale, but then, when wasn't he?

The girl—she couldn't have been older than twelve—sat next to his bed, and her hand rested above his ear, fingers in his hair. She was too young to recognize him, but old enough now—Charles saw the tiny curl of his lips—to be intrigued by the vulnerability of a sleeping face.

She was nervous; she had worked with the Brotherhood previously, but only in the service of refugees and militia. When a man who had looked like nothing less than a demon had appeared in the Brittany clinic and presented the appropriate paperwork to her father, however—well, the compensation was prodigious, but more importantly: no sane twelve-year-old would have ever given up the chance at such a story.

The girl, after all, was _not_ so young that she didn't recognize the shadow of a man who stood back against the wall, arms crossed, watching her every movement as she used her gift on the man who lay under the covers.

_His brain isn't so badly injured_, she told that man, her French subdued with a courtesy that did not entirely hide her curiosity. Because it was true—especially now, when the refugees had taken what boats and ships still functioned after the waves and moved up the coast with their hurts and fevers. _All he really needs is sleep._

The darkness gathered around that figure, vivid in her young imagination. She shrank back on her wooden chair.

_Fix him_, the shadow commanded. Eyes glinted out at her until she turned back to the man on the bed, and even then, the hair on the back of her neck rose. She looked at Charles' face and wondered who he was, to command such stern attention.

Charles pulled back, creeping from her mind without leaving a single eddy to show his presence. He plunged back down to his ocean floor and rested there, watching the light above dapple red from his eyelids.

.

.

.

**lxxxix.**

Charles' eyes snapped open, and he recognized the plaster of the ceiling over his bed. There was a dim circle of yellow up there, cast through the lampshade. He glanced to the window: dark.

The bedcovers were pulled up to his shoulders, and Charles ran his hands up beneath them—felt bruises along the way, as well as bare skin—winced, and investigated his face cautiously. He found it sore, but… Not _terribly_ so, if he didn't press on it. The cotton had been pulled out from his nostrils, the headache was gone—the nausea as well—and really; the worst of it seemed to be the bruise Skink had given him.

There was a noise, a subtle shift of clothing, and Charles flicked his gaze to the side. His pupils tightened as they focused on Erik's face—he was sitting back by the wall on a wooden chair that Charles vaguely recollected from his seldom-used study. He wore a black turtleneck and dark gray pants, dressed like a normal person except for the red and purple helmet, which now looked even more outlandish than usual. The wheelchair leaned against the wall beside him.

Charles' hands curled around the covers, pulling them up tight around his neck even as he berated himself—what, did he think that Erik would see bare skin and just, just _fall to_? No, he was being ridiculous, but… Charles couldn't bring himself to let go while those shadowed, gleaming eyes stared back at him.

A wry smile twitched at the corner of Erik's mouth; then he bent down, picked up the tall dark bottle next to his boot, and stood. As Erik walked near Charles hurried to sit up, letting the sheets slip down his torso with studied nonchalance. Better to be exposed than to lie on his back, he told himself, as his skin prickled with the cold.

"I brought you this because I thought you might need it," Erik stated with a quirk of his lips, presenting the label for Charles to read.

Scotch. Fifteen-year. Charles' eyes darted up again, and his brows dipped, just slightly, at the sight of that smile. Surely—surely Erik _had_ to know…

But Charles didn't comment; just shuffled over as Erik sat down on the bed with his legs draped over the edge. The mattress sank and the geneticist steadied himself with a hand, curling his fingers under when they strayed too close to the curve of Erik's trousers.

Erik took the glass from the bedside table, poured a finger of whiskey into it, and stopped.

Charles arched an eyebrow. "Feeling stingy today?" he asked, hand half-poised to accept the glass; reluctant to take so small a bribe.

Erik's lips curled furtively. "You've just had head trauma. You probably shouldn't be drinking at all, but it might help you sleep."

Charles plucked the glass from Erik's fingers and breathed a laugh into it; the fumes washed back cool over his face. "Oh, this isn't _nearly_ enough to make me drowsy. A little taste like this will only keep me awake wanting more," he remarked, then sipped; let his eyes flutter closed as he rolled the Scotch over his tongue; swallowed. It washed over his throat and left a coat of pleasant, buzzing heat. He hadn't realized, until then, how little he'd liked the taste in his mouth.

When Charles opened his eyes, Erik was watching him sidelong in such somber contemplation that the telepath felt a flare of panic—What if the whiskey was drugged? What if _that_ was why Erik wouldn't give him more?—except that, no, he was being ridiculous again, wasn't he?

No, Erik was watching him like that because Erik _knew_; of course he knew, and he was trying to decide how much _Charles_ knew.

Suddenly not very thirsty, Charles frowned and looked down past the glass, lifting his wrist to check the time—then his frown deepened and he turned his wrist over, as if the watch might have hidden on the other side.

"Ah," he heard from Erik, as he explained: "They took it from you. I… _Retrieved_ it." Erik paused, then requested, softly: "Give me your hand."

_It's quite all right; I can do that myself_, Charles wanted to say, but his throat stuck; so, mutely, he held his right arm out, hand bundled into a loose fist. He kept his eyes on the back of that fist; on the undulating line of knuckles and the tributaries of veins. Dimly, he saw the movement of Erik reaching into his back pocket; the flash of gold as he brought out the watch.

The last of Charles' possessions, and now Erik was giving it to him—taking the telepath's wrist in hand and laying the head of the watch flat against his skin, case warm from Erik's body. Erik turned Charles' hand over and fed the leather through the clasp, then covered both watch and wrist beneath his palm, staring down at them.

Charles saw the elegant point of his nose, the curve of his neck as he pressed the watch into Charles' arm. He knew that, in Erik's mind, the two were becoming one entity again. For Erik, everything had at last returned to its place.

Once Erik's fingers had slipped away, Charles brought his wrist close and looked at the face of the Rolex; at the long golden dashes of numbers. The hands still jumped along their course and he could hear the beat of the movement, functioning perfectly. It was five thirty-seven and earlier that night someone had finally succumbed to the temptation to take his watch—and Charles didn't even remember it happening.

A hand came to rest on the back of his neck and Charles closed his eyes; let his hand fall down to the sheets. "How much do you know?" Charles asked, finally.

A pause, then the low drag of Erik's voice: "I know that when someone came to check on you at eleven thirty, you were gone. I know that a guard attested to seeing you with Beast and an unknown female scientist, going down the stairs toward the physics lab."

Charles looked to see that Erik was regarding him with a raised eyebrow, waiting to accept any clarification the geneticist might be willing to grant. Charles, however, held his gaze steady, and Erik sighed, unsurprised; massaged his fingers into Charles' hair. "Shortly after that, a search team apprehended Beast in the pharmacy, and they were in turn attacked by my… _Former_ Lieutenant General and Secretary of State."

Charles turned his head sharply. "Is Beast all right? And… The others?"

The fingers on his scalp stilled, and Erik scrutinized him. "I'm afraid Beast will be in the clinic rather longer than he intended, but since he was already sedated, he wasn't directly targeted. The others didn't fare as well."

Charles nodded, and relaxed—but not entirely.

When Erik continued, his slouched shoulders and easy tone were at odds with the grim pull of his lips. "From there, Skink and Zeus must have carried you most of the way to the north entrance of the mansion, where about two dozen renegade civil defense soldiers were under siege by state security agents."

He gave Charles a small, grim smile. "Then I arrived. I'm sure you can guess how the rest went."

Charles swept the tip of his tongue over his lip. "Did you kill them?"

Erik tilted his head, studying the telepath. "Who?"

_He needs me to be more specific_, Charles realized, feeling a new twist of nausea. He looked at his glass of Scotch, shook it a little to watch it slosh up the sides of the glass, and then drained the rest in one draught. He took a deep breath. "Skink and Zeus, I suppose. And their associates."

Erik nodded, once, slowly. He took the glass from Charles and twisted slightly at the waist, turning in a long deliberate arc to set it back on the table. His turtleneck pulled tight over the muscles of his chest and Charles followed their outline with his eyes, unaware of his own staring until Erik turned his head back; a wry smirk twitched at the corner of the other man's mouth and Charles looked away quickly.

"I never saw your captors alive," Erik admitted, finally. His voice sank to a growl as he continued, "And they wouldn't be _dead_ yet if I had. As for their followers—some of them fell to state security; I killed most of the rest. A few remain alive. …For now."

"Don't do that," Charles sighed, letting his eyes slip closed again. Beast was injured, Hannah apparently missing, and Erik was on his way to exact some gruesome revenge on people who probably didn't deserve it—and all before breakfast. Or sleeping, for that matter. He wanted to bury himself back into the comfort of his bed and forget everything for a while, but… "Don't be cruel, Erik," he admonished.

Breath gusted onto Charles' shoulder, and he shivered. "Someone has to be punished," Erik rumbled. "Someone has to be, or they might do it again."

Charles turned his head blindly until he felt Erik's warmth against his cheek; except for the hand on the back of his neck Erik wasn't touching him at all, but Charles could _feel_ him—could feel his body along his own bare skin. Charles slit open his eyes to see Erik's legs angled away over the edge of the bed; a much steeper angle than when Erik had first sat down next to him. He had moved closer since then.

He pulled back and met Erik's gaze. "Discipline them if you must," Charles advised, weariness creeping into the words, "but… Not for me. Not like that."

Erik blinked; for a moment those gray-green eyes went wide. "I have to," he whispered. The hand on Charles' neck migrated; moved to the telepath's jaw. Then, even quieter, Erik said: "I wasn't there. I couldn't save you."

Charles remained motionless. "You didn't need to," he said.

Erik stopped breathing, and he shut his mouth into a thin line. He looked over Charles' face, and the telepath felt his bruises ache as vividly as if the other man had touched them. "They'll be dealt with," Erik stated, definitively. "Beast will be dealt with, when he wakes up. The other scientist, when we find her, will be interrogated. Which leaves—" he traced the backs of his curled fingers up the side of Charles' face— "_you_."

A leaden weight settled in Charles' stomach. "I expected as much," he admitted, softly—because it did not take a genius to realize that, even if Charles had not been _seen_ in the pharmacy, he was no doubt involved. And Erik… Well, Charles considered _himself_ to be intelligent—and he feared that the other man might well be smarter.

Charles straightened under Erik's scrutiny, because it would not do to run from the consequences _now_, when he had already claimed to accept them. Charles waited, and soon Erik, without breaking eye contact, held his hand out toward the open door. A moment later a bolt of bright _something_ shot into Erik's palm, and he snapped his fingers closed around it.

Charles barely inclined his chin to look down at Erik's hand when the other man offered the gold necklace to him, coiled in obedient circles over his callused skin. The geneticist shook his head. "No," he said. "I'll wear it, but I'm not going to put it on myself."

Erik stared at him intently, silent, and then nodded; he looked down to the chain, eyelids curving thin around the swell of his cornea as the metal rose from its loops, flowing along his fingers. He brought his hands near to each other and the necklace hung there, suspended between them.

Charles held perfectly still, chin held high as Erik curled his hands loosely to either side of the geneticist's neck; didn't flinch away from the icy cold of the chain as it draped itself over his skin.

He watched as Erik's brows furrowed in concentration, eyes focused beneath Charles' throat; felt the weight of Erik's hands resting on edge over his shoulders. The chain shifted against Charles' skin, and he resisted the urge to shiver; it was drawing tighter, shrinking, dragging up his chest toward his neck until finally—_finally_—it stopped, resting ticklish in the notch between his clavicles.

As Erik's hands withdrew, Charles lifted his own, feeling around the circumference of the—the _collar_; because whatever it had been before, _now_ it was unmistakable. The links, his fingertips told him, had melted together and reformed, thicker and flatter and, because of that—much shorter.

There was no clasp.

Charles let his hands fall to his lap and looked away, toward the other end of the bed, teeth clenched tightly together. He had known. He had _known_ that there would be consequences; and really, this wasn't the worst that could have happened. He was, in truth, no less restricted than he had been before.

The collar lay heavy across the back of his neck, real and solid in a way his foresight hadn't predicted.

"Charles."

He didn't mean to jump—hardly even moved, really—but the touch under his ear was sudden. He hunched his shoulders, a little, and didn't look back at Erik.

Erik's hand snaked back behind his head, into Charles' hair, and Erik pulled Charles to face him. His eyebrows dipped low with concern. "You were trying to kill me, Charles," he offered, in place of an apology.

"I wasn't," Charles whispered, because—no, he _hadn't_ been, but whatever he'd been trying to do… He _couldn't_, now. It didn't matter.

Erik frowned at him, and gripped Charles' hair tighter; shook him firmly, but not without gentleness. "_Charles_," he repeated, ducking his head down to stare into Charles' eyes; keeping them there as they tried to wander. "Charles…"

Charles blinked, and smiled weakly. "Yes, I'm sorry. I'm over-reacting."

Now Erik brought up his other hand, to frame Charles' face; his frown softened into something unhappier. "You have a right to be upset."

Whatever had been raw and exposed within Charles' ribs crusted over now, freezing with the ice of an early winter. It felt good; it felt like nothing. Charles curved his lips ironically, almost secretively as he said, "It's nothing that I didn't invite on myself."

Erik exhaled slowly through his nose; his thumbs fidgeted over the telepath's cheeks, careful not to put pressure on the bruises there. "No," he disagreed; "You shouldn't have felt the need to do it in the first place. If you felt more comfortable here…" His lips fell together and stayed there; his eyes focused intently, strangely, as if he were looking _through_ Charles—

Charles realized, suddenly, that Erik was looking at his nose.

One of Erik's hands left, and he held his thumb up to his mouth; he spread his tongue over it, and then held Charles' head in place as he rubbed the saliva into the crease of Charles' nostril. The telepath winced away, but couldn't move far as Erik drew the sleeve of his turtleneck up over his thumb and scrubbed it into Charles' skin.

"Ow," Charles remarked, sullenly.

Erik lowered both of his hands, and his fingers came to rest in a feather-light line across both of Charles' clavicles. The other man met his gaze helplessly. "There was blood," he explained. Erik leaned forward until his own nose rested against Charles' temple, and his lips moved against Charles' brow. "On your face, there was…"

"I heard you," Charles assured Erik, staring unseeing at the black fabric around the other man's neck.

Erik's nose slid into his hair, and his fingers settled more firmly onto Charles' shoulders. "When I came back and they didn't know where you were yet," he breathed against Charles' skin, "I thought that maybe you had been…"

"I wasn't," Charles muttered, and found that one of his hands had pressed into Erik's chest. He frowned, and pushed gently—felt the firm _give_ of muscle to either side of his fingers, through the soft turtleneck. He could feel the other's pulse, too; a faint rattle between his phalanges. In the ligament.

Erik seemed to accept that answer, for he leaned into Charles; the edge of his helmet dug into Charles' scalp and he cringed back from it until Erik moved; brought his lips caressing down, over Charles' temple and along his cheek. Hot breath shuddered over Charles' skin and he closed his eyes as the tip of Erik's tongue traced slow and wet over his lower lip.

Charles huffed a laugh, short and almost silent except for a small desperate note of cynicism, and Erik's hands tightened on his shoulders as the man responded with a noise not entirely unlike a growl and pushed his mouth into Charles', tongue sliding between the geneticist's lips and curling up behind his teeth.

The hands on his shoulders released their grip and flattened down over Charles' pectoral muscles before sweeping out to his sides; then around to splay out over Charles' back and pull him close, up against Erik. The fabric of the turtleneck wrinkled between them as Erik drew his fingers down Charles' spine, and Charles allowed himself to groan, his own hands spread over Erik's waist and flexing greedily.

Erik reached up to tug at his hair, pulling Charles' head back to nip at his neck—carefully, but with sharp attention. His other hand shifted to Charles' side again, squeezed, and pushed down to settle in the notch of his waist. Erik moved the hand in Charles' hair to his other side, and Erik's thumbs pressed in at the junction of ribs and abdomen as he pushed his bared teeth against Charles' throat; held them gritted tight against each other, enamel slick on muscle before opening his mouth entirely and molding his lips to that curve.

Charles bent his neck against the stroke of Erik's tongue and remembered, suddenly—prompted by those thumbs caressing over the smooth skin of his stomach—that he was mostly nude except for a pair of briefs and the blankets gathered around his lap, tugging over now as Erik twisted on top of them. Erik—who was still fully clothed. Who hunched over him, now, encircling him in his hands, face pushed into his neck and teeth at the ready should the metal around Charles' neck not suffice.

Erik held Charles there, for a moment—with his spine arched, head tipped to the side, hands on Erik's chest—before exhaling in a gust over Charles' skin and moving his face to capture Charles' lips again, pressing into him almost too hard to move. Charles slid his tongue against Erik's as it plunged into his mouth, hoping to have his own turn, and gasped around him as Erik's fingernails scraped over his flanks. He couldn't catch his breath because then Erik pushed his hands still lower, until the web of forefinger and thumb stretched out over the iliac spine of Charles' pelvis, thumbs going… Somewhat lower still.

The sound that Erik made was _definitely_ a growl this time, as he pulled his mouth back far enough that, when he spoke, his lips merely brushed Charles', rather than grinding into them.

"I want to jerk you off," Erik said, and Charles' mind froze.

_Oh, that's interesting_, he observed. Because—because he would never have anticipated just _how_ his body would react to those words.

Charles swallowed thickly. "Um," he managed, after a moment, pulling back. He licked at his lips, looking down to where Erik's hands held onto him, dipping just out of sight below the covers.

"I want to," Erik rasped into his ear again. "…If you'll let me."

Charles cleared his throat and shifted to meet Erik's eyes, trying to clear his head—which didn't exactly work, because Erik looked… Well. His mouth hung very slightly open as he panted through it; the line of his lower teeth lurked just inside. His eyebrows were low over his eyes, and his pupils were huge and black. He was clearly very sincere.

But Charles frowned, because: "What are you offering in return?"

Erik's eyebrows tightened in confusion, all in a flash of movement, before he said, "No bargaining. This _is_ my offer—" he flexed his thumbs into the dip of Charles' abdomen— "to you."

Charles stared at him, shocked. "I…"

Swaying close again, the edge of the helmet brushed Charles' face as Erik murmured into his sideburn, "Even if you close your eyes. Even if you imagine… Someone else. I want to give that to you."

Whatever it was that had lodged itself in Charles' throat, it was stubborn—he had to give it that. He tried to swallow again, and readied his refusal on his tongue, but… But when he met Erik's eyes again, he saw that they were wide, not with arousal, but with…

_Fear_, Charles mind told him, from very far away. Those thumbs were still wrapped around his hips, distracting, but he could still think, coldly, clinically: _he wants to reassure himself that I'm still here._

Because Erik… Erik, despite everything, _cared_ about him, even if the way he went about showing it was entirely wrong.

_Think of all the ways he's hurt you_, a part of Charles' mind said. _Think of all the ways he's hurt the people _you_ care about._

But when Charles drew breath, when he went to tell Erik that… Maybe it was because he was tired; maybe it was because he had gambled everything and lost; it might even have been the fear in those eyes, or the fear of his _own_ heart galloping headlong into its personal abyss, but he found that he whispered: "All right."

Then Charles fell silent, shocked at the sound of his own voice. He stared at Erik, waiting—watching the other's shoulders fall gently with a last, slow breath.

He didn't have to wait long—Erik made a low animal noise of satisfaction and his hands left Charles' hips to shove the telepath down to the mattress. He wasn't gentle—Charles lay stunned, for a moment, watching wide-eyed as Erik pushed the bed covers aside to curl his legs up next to Charles' and lean down over him, propped up on his elbow.

Charles could feel the heat of Erik all along his side, and though he had been much closer in the past—even before their difference of opinion—it had never—the _intention_ had never been there; that crackling _purpose_. Now… It was like having a _dragon_ coiled up in bed next to him, all heat and tension and fury, and who knew where all that energy would go next?

_I do_, Charles reminded himself faintly, looking into Erik's eyes where he loomed above. They were hooded and dark and flicked away a moment later to trail down the telepath's chest; drinking in the sight of him. Erik did not touch him except for where Charles' arm pressed into the turtleneck, and Charles himself glanced over Erik's body—at the long slope of his ribs down to the narrow waist, hips not much wider where they lay canted next to Charles' own; knees bent and boots hanging off the bed—_small mercies_, Charles thought.

Erik spread his hand over Charles' sternum and he realized, with a shiver, that the other man intended to remain fully clothed. Whereas Charles… He took a quick mental inventory of himself, to double-check. He didn't know who had done it, but at some point he had been undressed for bed, and all he wore beneath the covers were the briefs he favored during the day—not the boxers he slept in.

So that was convenient, at least; he didn't have to take the time to strip—or _be_ stripped—and nothing impeded the caress of Erik's hand down his chest except for the friction of his own pale skin. Charles watched, with Erik, as the other man explored him from this new angle; as Erik's short nails dug in and _dragged_ down the shallow line of his abdominal muscles. It seemed almost as if it were some other organism that jumped and tried to slither away—some other _person_, and Charles observed with detached interest as pinkish tracks fled out behind from Erik's fingernails.

Erik traced a ticklish circle around his navel and Charles saw his stomach draw tight again; it was a relief when Erik's hand then swerved out to his hip, gripping around his pelvis to gauge the firmness of bone.

Then—Charles held his breath—Erik tilted his head for a better view as he nudged back the bed covers, fingers passing over the briefs and then trailing along the outside of Charles' thigh as he drew the covers down—past the swell of the femur's great trochanter, down almost to Charles' knee. There Erik paused, and for a long moment, simply… _Looked_.

Charles shivered—it was cold—and turned his eyes away from his thin, still-atrophied legs; focused instead on the line of Erik's neck above him, as the other poised motionless. He wasn't watching when Erik stroked over that leg, and then moved his hand to the other—cupped it around what muscle Charles _did_ have—and ran it up the inside of his thigh.

Charles sucked in air, softly—but Erik's head turned in one smooth movement and that intent gaze met his. Charles went still under that stare, except that he had to breathe, and his chest jolted with the pounding of his heart—because Erik's hand sat nestled right up in the junction of thigh and body.

Erik trapped his eyes, studying Charles' face for a reaction as, far away, he _squeezed_ his fingers beneath the scant curve of the geneticist's arse—and was rewarded when Charles gasped and his legs—those traitorous things—pulled up and apart.

A languorous, predatory smile curled over Erik's lips, and then he plunged down to introduce that smile to Charles' mouth; muffled the small, startled noise Charles made, because it seemed that Erik had satisfied his curiosity—he had moved his hand again and now was _palming_ Charles through the cotton.

Charles hardly felt the click of Erik's teeth against his; he noticed, instead, that one of his legs had pressed up against Erik's thighs. He could feel the warmth, the relief from the cold air as—despite the fact that this was _Erik_, and furthermore, Erik was _not_ being gentle—his legs spread of their own accord, because… _God_, it had been so long—so _long_ since any hand other than his own had touched him there—but too _rough_, and his leg pressed against Erik's almost in self-defense, in an attempt to push _away_, even though he wanted—mostly wanted—

Charles winced and turned his face away from the kiss; Erik let him, and simply pressed his nose into Charles' skin and breathed there, deep drafts of air as he focused instead on his hand and—_oh, thank you_—slowed somewhat; did not so much _press_ anymore as _pull_, and Charles felt his knees drop back to the mattress—or against Erik—no longer trying to curl up in self defense.

Charles exhaled slowly through his nose, then hissed back in through his teeth because—_oh god_. That was _much_ better, now—it was actually _good_, and how terrifying was _that_? He felt his lips stretch into what almost became a laugh, because: _fairly terrifying_, his mind replied, and then subsided into dazed silence because Erik was daubing his tongue along just under his jaw and it was really too much to ask to keep up a running commentary.

Erik's teeth scraped at his neck just below his ear, and for the first time—Charles heard his own whimper break out through his throat and felt his cheeks flush crimson, as if _that_ would be the thing that betrayed him—as if Erik couldn't _feel_ the evidence between his legs.

But then Erik's hand peeled away and traced up along the inside of Charles' thigh, along his—Charles fought for the word, remembered, foggily: _gracilis_—unerring even though Charles squirmed beneath him, trying to _follow_, frowning, eyes closed—

Erik's mouth brushed the shell of his ear. "Charles," he whispered.

"Mm?" Charles responded, hoping that his displeasure was clear from that mild sound.

"I'm sorry, but I have to ask you…" Fingers plucked at the band of his pants and Charles pressed his hip into them invitingly, letting his eyelids slide open just enough to check if there was something really, drastically important delaying Erik—something life-and-death, preferably.

Erik's breath _whuffed_ into his ear. "…When was the last time that you were tested?"

Charles paused; his eyes opened the rest of the way and his brows furrowed as he turned his chin to peer at Erik. "…What?"

Erik's expression was earnest. "For venereal diseases. When was the last time?"

His mind had gone blank. No: _remained_ blank, because Charles felt rather more inclined to think about what he'd _like_ Erik to be doing, instead of… He blinked, and considered, squinting. "Um." When _had_ the last time been? "Four… Four years ago? In British Columbia."

Charles let his eyes start to slide shut again, but then, low, nearby: "And since then—has there been anyone?"

Charles snapped his eyes open to glare up at Erik. "_No_," he bit out. "I dare say that no one's been _interested_, considering."

Erik's eyebrows fell low in thought. "'Considering…'" he echoed. His expression darkened. "…Your legs."

Erik wrapped his hand around Charles' thigh and held it tightly against himself as he hissed, "How _shallow_. You're—" he leaned down and nuzzled into Charles' hair— "_more_ than your legs; than your body."

This time Charles _did_ laugh, sharp and bitter. "I'd like to see you say the same thing if the cure hadn't worked—if I were still paralyzed."

There was a _growl_ from his hair. "I would have found a way," Erik told him. "I would have—_researched_. …How to make it work for you."

"How touching," Charles muttered, and Erik tensed against him—let go of Charles' leg and brought that hand up to push into Charles' shoulder, shoving the telepath down into the bed as Erik dove into his mouth, all tongue and teeth and Charles grunted in _pain_ as Erik's nose smashed against his.

Charles was just beginning to wonder how he should breathe—because his nose was having _none_ of that—and then Erik was up, sitting next to him and Charles wound his fingers into the back of Erik's turtleneck as he _lifted_ Charles' hips with an easy flick of his wrists; as he tugged the briefs down to Charles' knees and abandoned them there, stopping to _look_, and Charles' fingers clenched tighter around the fabric. He couldn't breath, because—because he could peer down his own chest and see everything and _so could Erik_.

Charles stared, wide-eyed, as Erik reached out his hand and—very, very gently—almost hesitantly—traced his fingertips along the length of Charles' cock, where it lay half-hard amidst dark curls of hair. Erik tilted his head and Charles couldn't see his face behind the helmet as his thumb brushed over the foreskin, _pulling_ a little, curiously, and he remembered suddenly that—_oh_, right, Erik probably didn't have—but what about… _Previous_ partners…?

Then Erik wrapped his fingers around his cock and Charles froze—this was going to _happen_, wasn't it?—and he searched for something new to grab onto as Erik lay back down next to him, his hand tugging experimentally until Erik went still again because…

Charles realized, suddenly, that his own hand had patted and then _stuck_ to the curve of Erik's helmet, clinging desperately—leaving smudges on the shining red. The telepath managed a twitching smile and pulled his hand away, fingers spread innocently as he lifted his arm back above his head to move it around Erik's body and back to his own.

Erik seized Charles' wrist before he could manage it, pinning it just above Charles' head with the hand whose elbow he leant on.

Charles pulled at his wrist and frowned up at Erik, who smiled, eyelids dipping in the lazy contentment of a cat crouched over its still-living prey. "The other, too," Erik murmured, as he squeezed the telepath's wrist for emphasis.

Charles stared at him in incomprehension until Erik's languid smile curled and he took his hand from between Charles' legs to capture the geneticist's other wrist, pushing it down on top of the first; then he looped his fingers around both of them and pressed them into the pillow.

Immediately Charles tried to twist out of the hold, head framed between his arms and feeling more vulnerable than ever, stretched out and exposed as he was, until Erik leaned down to nose into his temple. "Shh," he urged, voice a low rumble. "_Relax_. You don't need your hands for anything right now, do you?" Then he withdrew a little to study Charles—considered him—and reached with his free hand to push the collar up from the telepath's chest until it draped heavy over his throat.

Charles swallowed, and felt the pull of the chain against the side of his neck.

Satisfied, Erik returned his hand to between Charles' legs and resumed that leisurely movement there—but he didn't look away from Charles' face, and the telepath stared back at him with his chin tipped up; making no effort to hide the chain even when, now and then, Erik's eyes darted back to it and _shone_.

But it was difficult—unsurprisingly—to maintain that defiant stare with Erik's hand around his cock, calluses rasping over sensitive skin; difficult, when the muscles of Charles' face kept trying to contort away from his careful composure. And Erik's gaze wasn't… _Confrontational_, really; it was more… Observant.

Charles flinched as some of those calluses caught against something a little _too_ sensitive, and Erik's eyelids creased with consideration; then he adjusted his grip, slightly, and… _Better_, Charles thought, and realized: Erik was watching his reactions. He wasn't just trying to get Charles off—he was trying to do it _well_.

At this, Charles decided: it was all too much to think about at the moment. So he let his eyes fall closed again—after all, Erik had given him express permission—and tried to forget _who_ was touching him in favor of the fact that someone—not _necessarily_ Erik, no, it could be anyone—_was_, and that was a sentiment his body could agree with.

Charles relaxed, and—and let the man who had destroyed the world and stolen his life give him a nice, enjoyable wank. But… It was easy not to think about, lying next to the warmth of Erik's body as he was. He could smell him—no cologne, now, because morning had been an entire day before, but a sort of pleasant masculine muskiness. It was a healthy sort of odor, Charles decided, flexing his wrists in Erik's grip. The other's breath _puffed_ over his cheek, but Charles ignored it.

He'd wondered, previously, whether it would be worse to get to this point and take a long time to get it over with—to have to endure it in awkward silence—or if it would be worse to _not_ take a long time; to appear eager. Charles found now, however, that—that he didn't really _care_; heard the noise of Erik's hand on his flesh and didn't think to be embarrassed, because of _course_ it would make a noise—it was _real_. It had consequences, and not—not all of them were bad.

Charles made a face—started to wrinkle up his nose until he thought better of it—and shifted his hips around to find a different angle as those calluses _scratched_ over him, over and over, and it—it felt nice, to a point, but… But he winced away again, because it also _hurt_, in a way, but maybe he could—

Erik's hand left, and Charles made a low noise of protest in his throat; then he peeked out from behind his eyelids to watch as Erik considered his palm, held flat before him—turned it slightly—then ducked his head forward and spat onto it, seeming almost self-conscious. Erik glanced over to check if Charles saw, but the geneticist closed his eyes again and waited until he felt the saliva cold and slick against his cock.

Charles hummed his approval; _much better_. Then, because he wasn't fighting against the chafing anymore, he sank back into the mattress and the muscles of his back unwound. He sighed: _so_ much better.

He felt Erik reposition himself above him, leaning over Charles more as he increased his pace, and Charles arched into him—pressing his chest into Erik's as well as he was able to. He wanted to grab onto him—tugged at his wrists again, and Erik's grip tightened—but he made do with shoving his head against Erik's mouth as the other man rested his lips against Charles' temple.

Charles drew his leg up along Erik's thigh; felt the tension in the other as Erik held still against him. He wanted—he wanted to be _closer_; he wanted to _taste_ Erik—but Erik was clothed; fully clothed, even his neck was hidden, and Charles was held too tightly to change that. So he focused on where Erik _did_ touch him; thrust up blunt into the palm of Erik's hand slightly before Erik had anticipated, and in response Erik twisted his palm around the head of Charles' cock.

Charles grimaced, and Erik paused—although Charles stubbornly continued rocking into him.

"Did that hurt?" Erik whispered, near his ear, and Charles shook his head sharply without opening his eyes. Erik waited a moment longer, then pushed his nose back into Charles' temple, drew his fingers up around the shaft of his cock, and then palmed the head again, grinning against Charles' skin as the telepath shuddered beneath him.

Erik paused once more to spit into his hand again, but Charles hardly noticed—accepted it as a necessary annoyance—and snuck a look down, to watch Erik's long fingers encircling him—shivered—and closed his eyes again. His arms shook in Erik's grasp, and the skin of his chest felt hot, but those were—minor inconveniences. Not even relevant—pulled away down into his abdomen with the rest of his problems, building in the muscles of his thighs and tugging at his navel.

Charles opened his eyes again, and met Erik's—because Erik had resumed watching him, eyebrows tilted up in fascinated concentration, but Erik's gaze sharpened against his and the geneticist was unable to look away. Charles' bottom lip crept between his teeth but Erik never glanced down at it; only stared—stared into his eyes—

Then Erik bowed down to kiss him, just a soft caress of lips, and Charles opened his mouth—but not to kiss him, and not to gasp, because Charles _couldn't_, and maybe he had meant to do one of those things but he _forgot_, and what was—he was—

Charles tore out of the kiss and pressed his face into his arm; he arched his back and pushed his thigh into Erik's, pulled at his wrists in Erik's grasp. He felt his own teeth on his skin as he choked out a groan; felt Erik's tongue hot and wet on his throat, sliding over gold and skin alike. Charles thrust into Erik's hand in short jerks as fluid fell onto his stomach and began to pool there, and the slide of fingers over his cock was slick and smooth, now—until Erik slowed, stopped, and finally…Took his hand away.

Charles let all of his muscles _go_ and simply lay there, panting and staring at the inside of his eyelids.

Fingers unwrapped from his wrists and Charles' eyes snapped open; he pried his face up from his arm and his bruises twinged a reminder as caught sight of Erik staring down at his belly. Erik reached over and trailed two fingers through the come collected in the dip around Charles' navel; then raised those fingers up to his mouth and—glancing almost shyly over at Charles' astonished face—tasted them, delicately, with the tip of his tongue.

Charles shut his jaw with a soft _click_. A slow, pleased smile crept to the edges of Erik's lips, just behind his come-smeared fingers.

He had just had sex with Erik, Charles realized.

Of course, he could tell himself that it didn't really count—that it wasn't _real_ sex—but Charles had never had much respect for the people who used that excuse. He had laid himself at Erik's mercy and allowed that man access to his very brain chemistry. It was sex, and it was very much reality.

_And not an unpleasant reality_, a part of Charles' mind mused appreciatively, but Charles shoved that part away because—because this had been a _bad_ idea, because… He…

_But what do I have to lose, now?_ Charles asked himself, bringing his arms back down to his side from above his head—well, the one that wouldn't end up wrapped around Erik, at least. That stayed up by the headboard.

And Erik… Charles scrutinized the man lying next to him. His helmet still gleamed over his head, marked with the prints of Charles' fingers, but Erik's eyes were dark and shining underneath. Sweat glistened where Charles could glimpse skin. He had gone back to breathing through his mouth—shallow, irregular puffs of air that cooled by the time they reached Charles' face.

Charles understood, suddenly, that Erik had not been unaffected by the… _Sex_. Which made sense, of course, but… Was Charles expected to…?

Charles reached over with his opposite arm, crossing over his torso and careful not to move in such a way as to make a mess of himself or the sheets, and felt along Erik's thigh; found a bulge that… Appeared to extend a good way down Erik's trouser leg—which was _exactly_ the sort of thing briefs were good at preventing, really.

Charles frowned, and cupped his fingers over the shape of Erik's cock; felt the ridge of the head. He experienced a momentary, primal fear: _oh god, have I been _small_ this whole time and no one's told me?_ Which was ridiculous, really, because his partners didn't _have_ to tell him and nobody had ever, so to speak, complained.

So Erik was simply, evidently, well-endowed. _Interesting_. Charles rubbed his hand along the length of that bulge, to see what would happen, and—

Erik plucked his hand away and set it back down at Charles' side. "I'm fine for now, Charles," he said, and Charles wanted to laugh—because _that_ was anything _but_ "fine," and if it was, he didn't want to know what _wouldn't_ be fine. Still… Who was he to argue?

Erik picked himself up off the bed and set his boots to the floor. When he stood, he paused there, and appeared almost to—sway? But then he was walking across the floor toward Charles' bathroom and his steps were steady enough, if slightly awkward.

He vanished through the door; the light inside flared on and Charles waited, rubbing absent circles on the parts of his chest that were dry while he listened. There was a sound of running water; of a washcloth being wrung out over a basin.

A moment later, Erik re-emerged, carrying both a dry and a wet cloth over his hands. The outline of his erection was still visible, but not quite as pronounced—thankfully, because Charles couldn't count on himself not to stare.

Erik, when he reached the bed again, held out his hand as if he were going to clean up Charles himself, but the geneticist intercepted him neatly and plucked the dry cloth from his hand. He dabbed it over his stomach and pretended not to notice when Erik sank back down onto the chair next to the bed and watched.

After all, what did it matter? What did it matter, now, when Charles had no plan for the future and nothing to bargain for? He had no way to remove the collar around his neck unless he could convince Erik that he was trustworthy again—and Erik knew him too well to believe _that_, not for a long while at least, so if Erik was going to make a habit of offering free wanks then Charles might as well enjoy them. He might as well admit that he enjoyed _Erik_, while he was at it—because it was after six in the morning and Charles still hadn't really slept and it was all over.

And if this _wasn't_ the end… Well, Charles would think about that later in the morning.

Or whenever he woke up.

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	25. Chapter 25

****Ah! Finally done. Goodness, break was not any less busy than during the semester - moreso, really, since I didn't really have any private time without class. Here's hoping this finishes quickly once school starts again!

Beta'd, as usual, by the superb idioticonion.

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><p>.<p>

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**xc.**

Charles wriggled over onto his side to nuzzle his face into the pillow, and stretched his legs out into the cool depths of the sheets, shivering with the thrill of the temperature change and the pull of his muscles. Then he drew them up again, back into his shell of warmth, and exhaled a soft sigh of contentment.

Although he could see by the light of his eyelids that it was later—_far_ later—than he usually slept, Charles was loath to emerge from the shroud of his dreams. He wanted to believe, just for a little while longer, that he could actually _go_ to Africa and find bands of _Homo erectus_ hidden someplace yet undiscovered; that he could crouch down nearby and watch them as they wrapped long, ape-like fingers around clumsy stone tools. He wanted to think that he could hear the tones of their grunts, and feel their minds turning to grasp the meaning of the rising sun.

Charles wanted to, but when his pushed his nose into the pillow the pain jolted him into awareness. He was still in the mansion, in his rooms, and he had been attacked—had been caught—had just _had sex with Erik_.

He groaned, and brought his hand up from beneath the covers to massage his sore nose. What had he been _thinking_, to agree to that? Erik hadn't even _coerced_ him; had only… Only _asked_, for _permission_ even, given him a way out, and yet… Charles had given that consent.

_You were emotionally vulnerable_, Charles told himself, moving on from his nose to rub at his eyes. _You'd just had a traumatic experience and you were looking for reassurance._ It sounded likely. It sounded like it could be true. But… Charles thought back, remembered Erik's clothed body pressed up along his bare skin; remembered draping his leg over Erik's thigh while Erik got him off, long fingers wrapped around—

Charles felt his cheeks go red as he squeezed that appendage between his legs. _Knock that off_, he told it.

So. He'd had sex with Erik, it hadn't exactly been unpleasant—well, it had been a little awkward, but _definitely_ not unpleasant—and now…

_Now I will just have to take care not to repeat the experience_, Charles decided, and reached out to the table to find his watch. He patted the wood several times before realizing that he hadn't even taken it off his wrist the night prior, in amidst all the sex and—he grimaced as the chain shifted against his neck—unhealthy possessive business.

He scratched beneath the chain absently as he checked the time. The golden hour hand pointed just a hair to the right of eleven; Charles pulled his lips into an exaggerated frown as he tried to remember the last time he had slept so late without getting a full night's sleep. Not since he had been a student, surely—and a _young_ student, at that.

_Lucky blighter,_ he mused. Oh, to be an undergraduate again—with all the future ahead of him, not a clue in the world, and a bottle in each hand! Coupled with his biologist's knowledge that the symptoms of a hangover were merely the result of dehydration, that could well be paradise.

Charles sighed, and pushed himself up; there was no use in moping around his bed all day.

After considering his crutches for a moment, Charles pulled his chair closer and slid down into it. He shivered, and hurried to collect clothing for the day so that he could get into the bathroom, close the door, and fog the mirror over with steam.

He thought very hard about fruit flies while he sat under the hot water and washed.

Charles dried himself off as thoroughly as he could while sitting in a puddle, then pulled on the oldest of his clothes: the suit jacket, cardigan, and shirt that he had worn with him to the mansion. They were almost indistinguishable from the new outfits in his wardrobe because they were all disquietingly precise clones of what he'd worn prior to his capture.

Or at least, they were all very similar to what Erik had _seen_ him wear. That strange pair of shorts that Charles saved for the rare day out in the sun somewhere quiet and secluded; the leather jacket he'd always meant to wear a third time; the pullovers and, yes, _turtlenecks_ that Charles sometimes wore during the winter when he knew he wasn't going anywhere… They were all conspicuously absent.

Charles paused as he buttoned the cardigan, and saw through the fog of the mirror a vague pattern of dark smudges pulling together into a shape almost recognizable as his own face. He looked down at the marble countertop and saw the same cologne that he'd kept in the cabinet at Westchester, although he'd never used that bottle—it had been a half-empty relic of his father's and Charles had never gotten around to throwing it away. And yet here it was, full again.

He was becoming more and more an image of himself, recreated from Erik's memory.

"How recursive," Charles muttered to himself. He turned away from the mirror and cologne, and leaned over to open the door. Let Erik keep his delusions, if it made him feel better—he couldn't change the truth by ignoring it, after all, and Charles… Well, he wasn't done yet. He felt sure that he wasn't done yet, even if his first plan hadn't worked. It had, after all, been his _first_.

The gold around his neck was no longer chill—it had been pressed against his skin all night, had warmed under the hot water with him, and rolled over his throat with the towel—but it seemed heavier than it had before. Charles knew, after all, that there had been a _reason_ to be so determined that his first attempt succeed.

Still. Charles had thwarted Erik's Brotherhood for a year using little more than wits and determination. Outnumbered, trapped in his chair, cut off from Erik's mind—little had changed, really, in the grand scheme of things. He could still find a way to matter.

So Charles kept careful posture as he went through the sitting room and to his door. He'd get some work done in the labs; keep his eyes open along the way—

Charles stopped while his mind scrambled to explain what his eyes were seeing. Except that he knew already; knew well enough what he saw—because his old door was gone and the one that had taken its place was steel. There was no handle.

Barely breathing, Charles edged up to that smooth steel door and laid his hand on it. The metal was cool beneath his palm, quiescent and obedient—but not to _him_. He hadn't heard it being installed, but then, that was one of the advantages of not needing tools, wasn't it?

Charles inhaled, balled his hand into a fist, and knocked on the door.

Because he hadn't expected anything to come of it, Charles jumped when he heard the scrape of a key in the lock, and hurried to back up as the door nudged in.

A guard peeked in around the steel, helmet just out of reach. Frowning with suspicion, he asked, "What do you want?"

"Only to go to the labs and do my research," Charles told the guard, setting his hands down on the rims of his wheels. He squinted at the guard, but that didn't trigger any spark of recognition.

The guard pushed the door open just a little further, and Charles' eyes dipped down to see the bulky, irregular shape of a pistol on the man's hip. He made every effort to keep his expression blank, to keep his eyes from widening. After all, he'd met people who could bend metal with their minds, who could emit blades of energy and careful grasping hands of telekinesis—it seemed silly to feel this rush of fear _now_, for something as inconsequential and mundane as a _gun_.

Charles moistened his lips with a daub of his tongue and looked up again, more warily now. He was certain that the gun wasn't meant to be used against he, himself, but… It _did_ warrant caution. Men with guns, after all, were often missing only a reason to use them.

The guard's frown deepened. "You're not supposed to leave your rooms."

"My research is very time-sensitive," Charles replied, because it was at least partially true—he would lose a day of bacteria if he didn't get into the lab. The bacteria would certainly care, if no one else. "If I don't tend to it soon I'll have to start over."

"Doesn't matter," the guard said, narrowing his eyes. "Unless I get orders to let you out, you're not leaving."

"What about food?" Charles inquired, edging forward; the guard closed the door slightly at his approach. "It's past noon. I don't suppose I have to bother you for that, do I?"

"I was told," the guard began, lifting his chin, "that you have a perfectly serviceable _call button_ in there, so that you don't have to bother me at all."

"I'm not sure if it still works," Charles protested, focusing on: _slow, clear, calm_. He needed to enunciate; he needed to be understood; he needed—

"Only one way to find out," the guard recommended, and then swung the door closed again. It shut with a heavy thud and the clatter of a falling latch.

Charles sat motionless for a few minutes in the dark of his foyer, staring at the featureless steel. It was like looking into the mirror again; his reflection lay there, too: a vague, dull smudge of silhouette. He wondered if Erik could feel light on metal; if he could sense when a photon excited an electron and bounced away again. He wondered if Erik could feel his shadow.

Eventually, he went back into the sitting room and found the call button that he'd mostly avoided while his legs had regained more of their function. Charles pressed the thick black rubber and waited, eyes roving over the bright glass of his window as his fingers made their way to his neck and found the chain beneath his shirt.

The collar rankled, but the gold was, after all, only symbolic of the larger problem; a convenient distraction. With a sharp pair of shears and good finger strength, Charles felt sure that he could be rid of it easily—but cutting the collar off wouldn't change anything. Being free of the chain around his neck would not make him free, because it was only… A _symptom_, perhaps, of such greater things as the locked door. And even the door itself was only an extension of Erik.

Beth entered, then; she carried a tray of cucumber sandwiches and tea because she'd drawn the appropriate connection between the call and the time. Charles was intrigued to see that she still wasn't wearing a helmet, and he extended a quick probe of thought to see—why? Why lock him into a room under armed guard and then offer him a way to communicate with the outside world, if he dared?

Her mind was full of studied nothingness as she tried not to think about anything at all—she didn't know what he'd done, exactly, but she knew he was in some way a traitor. She knew him well enough not to be afraid, so she was more… Embarrassed, perhaps? _Embarrassed_ for him, and trying for his sake not to notice that he was a prisoner, but there was nothing there that hinted she might be a trap. _Interesting_.

"Good morning, Professor Xavier," Beth said, keeping careful eye contact with the plate of food as she set it down on the end table. She seemed about to ask how he was, but then she glanced at his face—he saw her eyes flick to the bruises on his cheek—and looked quickly away, clearing her throat awkwardly. "Well. Here you are."

"Thank you," Charles replied, remaining where he sat. He considered asking whether she knew when he would be released, but… He knew well enough that she didn't, and asking despite that would be petulant. "You'll be back for the dishes, yes?"

Beth met his eyes and smiled tentatively; Charles sensed her relief that he hadn't complained to her. "Of course," she assured him.

"Good," Charles said, and waited until she'd turned away to press his fingers to his temple. He closed his eyes, and it was like catching a firefly; like reaching out to encircle slow hands around one of those obliviously drifting insects so that it landed unharmed on his palm, benignly confused and crawling up, up along the creases of his fingers on tiny insect legs, flashing gorgeous yellow-green all the while.

Before it could take off again—before Beth went out the door and took the glow of her mind with her—Charles whispered the barest breeze of a suggestion: _be curious; be cautious; remember anything to do with me_.

He watched her leave, and dropped his hand back to his lap as the door shut behind her, to be locked again by the guard. Maybe she _was_ a trap set to test Charles' obedience, but what did it matter? Even if another telepath—Frost, or whoever else the Brotherhood may be able to employ—could _find_ such a subtle command, then what might they possibly do about it that was worse than this?

Because Charles hadn't forgotten what it had been like, at the beginning. When no one but Erik had visited, and then after that when there had been nothing to break up his day but Brotherhood meetings and the occasional all-too-brief talk with Raven. Charles remembered the blankness of those weeks, staring out the window while time passed too slowly, moving from distraction to useless distraction only to find that he had no real memory of the day; no real way to mark that it had happened at all.

He remembered too vividly what it was like to be idle and alone, and knew that he would not be able to deal with that isolation any better now that he'd enjoyed company and work.

Charles stared across the room at the steam wisping up from the spout of the teapot. Something wedged and scratched in his throat like a living thing. He was going to be alone—he was going to be alone again, and silent, with nothing but his own mind to distract him, and what could he do about it? Previously, he had bargained with Erik—he had rationalized—he had told himself that it was a small trade: a kiss for a visit from a friend; hands stroking his skin for the right to research; and maybe—what? Letting Erik lean over him and take him apart piece by piece in exchange for a punishment less cruel?

He would almost rather have faced the brief and violent penalty Erik _should_ have given him, because at least then it would be _over_. Because… What if Erik never let him out again? What if he was to be trapped here, alone, exactly where Erik could always find him, for… _Weeks_ maybe, or months, or even…

Charles realized that he was squeezing the padding of his arm rests flat, and his fingers hurt from driving into the metal, but he couldn't let go. He closed his eyes, instead, so tightly that he went dizzy in the featureless black. He couldn't; he couldn't be alone again, he _couldn't_—and it was weak of him, so _weak_ and fragile that he couldn't even bear to go without talking to people for a little while, couldn't even manage to get over being bored, couldn't come up with some way to distract himself, couldn't _resist_ the same way that Erik would probably resist, if Erik were in his place.

And now, he wasn't just back to square one—he was _worse_ than square one, because the only thing Charles had left to bargain was his body, precisely that thing he'd thought so easy and meaningless to give away. He'd known that it would come to this—had known even before Erik had kissed him—but Charles had thought that it would happen while he gritted his teeth and kept an eye on his watch, counting the seconds while Erik thrust into him. Until Charles could be done, and do something else.

How naïve, to think that _anything_ involving Erik could come without emotional involvement; that anything Erik did with him could be so impersonal and businesslike. There would be no watching the clock if Erik had sex with him, because Erik would be there the whole time making sure that Charles was comfortable, that he was—Charles shivered, eyelids still ground shut—_enjoying_ himself.

But Charles didn't want that. He didn't want to remember what humanity Erik might still have left; what humanity he might now _lack_, to ask such a thing of him. Charles didn't want to know what Erik had given up to become a tyrant and he didn't want to—to _feel_ anything, to be made to feel—he didn't want to—but he _would_; he undoubtedly would.

Charles opened his eyes and found that his lashes stuck together with moisture, so he pressed at them with his jacket sleeve; quick little pats that left his cuff speckled with dark stains of wet. He would just… He would just have to figure out a way to _not_ have sex with Erik—either by finding a better way to cope with his loneliness, or by finding a better way to bargain.

_I don't want you_, Charles told the Erik in his mind. _I don't want to care about you._

_I don't want to grieve for you._

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**xci.**

Eventually, Charles drove himself to eat his sandwich and drink his tea—he needed to eat, after all, and he'd slept through breakfast. He barely tasted the bite of the cucumber, focusing instead on simply chewing enough to swallow without choking.

Beth came and went, taking the emptied lunch tray with her—but not before Charles dipped into her short-term memory to see if she'd learned anything about his predicament while walking around the mansion. He was unsurprised to find that she hadn't, and Charles let her go about her way with no more than a small nod of acknowledgement. It had only been an hour, after all.

Then… Then he waited.

Charles tried to remember what he used to do, while he waited. He seemed to recall that there was an awful lot of staring out the window involved, so he went to it and tried to lose himself in the people out there. There was snow now; their brief respite from the cold had come to an end and now the sidewalks made a concrete grid through glittering white, pristine except for where some intrepid person had braved the sock-high snow and forged a path leading from one corner to the other.

There was no hint that anyone had ever played in the courtyard—that anyone could have felt free enough to scoop some of that snow up and send it flying through the air.

Charles found that he was much less content to simply look, now that he had been down there himself, and he tried not to consider—unsuccessfully—whether _everything_ would be that way, because… Because he was fairly certain that it _would_. He did not need to imagine what it would be like to go work in the labs, because he had done it; nor did he need to wonder what kind of people walked below. Now he found that he missed them; even those things he hadn't liked very much, like the Brotherhood meetings.

So it was that Charles soon grew tired of watching, and then shortly after that he found that he actually began to _loathe_ that view of the courtyard, laid out before him like a taunt.

Hissing quietly between his teeth, Charles spun himself away from the window and went instead to the small bookshelf in his neglected office. Of its three shelves, only the top two actually contained books—those two that were in easiest reach from the chair.

He scrutinized the spines carefully and, seeing that none of the titles were new, sighed and reached out to free _On the Road_ from between its fellows. It didn't take long, however, for Charles to grow dissatisfied with his choice in reading material. The author rambled, and worse: Charles was beginning to suspect that Kerouac actually expected him to _sympathize_ with the narrator.

"No, thank you," he muttered to himself, tossing the book onto the end table. "I've had quite enough of that lately."

Then he stared at the cover for a while, drumming his fingers over his thighs before snatching the book back up to take to the shelves. It wouldn't do, to have Erik come in and decide to read the rest to him.

Charles wondered vaguely whether the books on the shelves were Erik's selections; but then again, the books Erik brought to read in the evenings weren't boring, so if they _were_ Erik's choice then the man was clearly set to torment him. Unless… Could it be possible that Erik's reading material was only interesting _because_…?

Charles shook that thought away. No, that was patent nonsense; he was old enough and well-read enough to have his own tastes in literature. Anyway, everything _else_ was such a close copy to what he'd had in his own life that Charles was quite sure that, had Erik supplied him with books, they would all be exact duplicates of whichever well-worn copies had been by his desk in Westchester.

Going to his desk, Charles pulled open a drawer and withdrew a pen and a thin pad of yellow paper. Perhaps if he could not _read_, then he might instead write—after all, he had interesting stories to tell, didn't he? And writing couldn't be so hard, if people like Kerouac could do it. It was essentially just talking, but on paper—and Charles was perfectly adroit at _that_.

"Very well," Charles muttered to himself, quietly shocked at the loudness. "I'll start the _Memoir of Charles Xavier_." He poised his pen at the top of the page and considered—how should he begin?

He stared at the paper for a while longer, frowning. The blankness of the page—well, the stripy yellowness of it—was awfully… _Blank_. Goodness. And wasn't it true that the difference between zero and one was infinitely greater than between one and any other number? Clearly the same must be true for memoirs.

Charles waggled his pen between thumb and forefinger, then tilted that same hand over to check the time. As a younger man Charles had worn his watch on the left, like most right-handed people, but once he'd started his thesis research he'd started to needing reminders of things like when to eat, and when his appointments were, and it was just so much _harder_ to bring his left wrist all the way up when Raven wasn't there to usher him from one table to another. His right was at hand already, so to speak.

_Writing_, Charles reminded himself sharply. He'd always thought that if there'd been anything he needed to write he would simply _do_ so, but now he was starting to believe that perhaps some amount of precautionary practice might not have gone amiss. His thesis must have been an absolute _bore_ to read, he realized now, and then it occurred to him: _I wonder if the members of my panel are still alive—maybe I should find them and apologize…_

Charles snapped back to the blank page again. Yes; writing. Where to begin? Where _was_ the beginning? The war; meeting Erik; Charles' youth; his birth; the evolution of the human species… Each implied a different scope; a different tone.

Scratching his chin in perplexity, Charles mused grudgingly that—Kerouac excepted—perhaps there _was_ some particular skill necessary for writing. Although it was hardly as if anyone were going to _read_ it, so it didn't exactly matter how—

There was a loud warning knock at his door—banging, really, because it was amplified by the steel—and Charles leaped into motion, pulling his chair back from the desk and darting into the sitting room to see who might possibly have come to visit him. If it were Erik—although it would _not_ necessarily be Erik—then Charles would… He would… Well, he'd give Erik a piece of his mind, certainly; something about how it was rude to lock up old friends without at least providing any decent reading material—

He braked to a stop when he saw that it was Raven who had come to visit. She stood framed in the foyer and she looked… Rather upset with him.

Her arms were crossed over her bare, scaled breasts, and she couldn't seem to decide whether she was hiding behind them or being indignant. "Charles," Raven began, frowning. She kept her voice carefully, tenuously even. "Magneto told me that you snuck out of your rooms last night. He said that you were probably with Beast in the pharmacy, digging around with the lights all turned out."

Charles' mind flashed through the possibilities—he could lie; nobody, after all, had actually _seen_ him around medical storage. The best anyone knew was that he'd been heading in that direction, and that he'd been in the area when Zeus and Skink found him. He could claim that he and Beast hadn't been together, that Erik had no business hypothesizing on his activities—which he _didn't_—but…

…But this was Raven, whom he'd always trusted enough to leave to her own thoughts. Whom he'd never feared, even after she'd left him injured on the beach and teleported away to call herself by a new name, to turn to nudism and extremism, all in her rebellion of the life Charles had led with her. He had failed her in so many ways already; the least he could do was to be honest with her.

"I'm sorry," Charles offered, "But I can't ignore my principles."

Raven exhaled expansively and let her arms swing down as she paced across the room to look out the window, where the sky had gone orange with a too-early sunset. Then she leaned back against the wood paneling and stared at Charles, arms returning to cross more firmly over her chest. "You know, Charles, I really thought we were making progress. I thought that if _you_ could come to understand us, surely the rest of the resistance could. I suppose that was all an act, though?"

Charles watched her from where he sat, brows faintly creased. He shook his head in a short little twitch. "Helping isn't an act. I want to help. But for me… _This_ is helping. I can't support a regime that's built on fear and discrimination, no matter how nicely you ask."

"So you were going to solve violence with more violence?" Raven asked. "Was that what you were planning to do? Were you going to poison Magneto? I can't believe that you would do anything… Anything so _permanent_; so…" She struggled for a word, hand waving vaguely.

"Mean?" Charles supplied, wryly, and Raven's lips quirked into a mirthless smile.

"_That_ I can believe," Raven told him, and continued before he could protest: "What happened to negotiation? To taking the nonviolent way out? Don't you do that anymore?"

Charles looked over her narrow blue body where it faded into the deepening shadows of evening, searching for words and longing for simpler times. For when they'd shared everything—a flat, their meals, their days—and even without telepathy to smooth the way, it had been… Peaceful. They'd understood each other, then.

"I do," Charles replied, quietly. "I'd like to. I just don't know that it's possible anymore."

"Charles," Raven sighed, letting her arms down to lay along the wood behind her. "I don't like this any more than you do, but… He listens to you. You can _change_ this; I think you might be the only one who can. You don't… You don't have to poison him, or whatever you were going to do."

"I don't want to kill Erik," Charles assured her. "But I don't think I can help here. Maybe he listens to me, but not to the right words."

Raven pushed off from the wall and started forward. "No—he _does_; he does to you more than anyone, and that's because he listens to us—to _me_—even _less_, or for the wrong reasons. You don't understand; he's not… Magneto doesn't _have_ a direction anymore. He doesn't have a goal and he can't imagine a brighter future than the one he's certain we're doomed for. He has nothing to strive towards. If he does _anything_ you tell him to, even the smallest, most inconsequential bit of feel-good nothingness, whether or not he thinks it will work—Charles, it's more than we had already."

Her yellow eyes were fixed on him, wide and beseeching, and Charles had to look away. "I can't do it," he said, in a ragged whisper. "I can't stay locked up here and praise Erik for every little thing he does right."

Raven stepped closer and held her hand out; Charles dipped his chin and pressed his forehead into her palm. Her thick, dry skin was cool against his, and he let his eyes fall shut as she spoke. Her voice was low and smooth. "Can't you? Isn't it worth some minor suffering on your part, if it improves the lives of millions by even the smallest amount?"

"You don't know what you're asking me to do," Charles muttered, pushing against her hand until he felt her fingernails scratch gently into his scalp. Because she was right—it really was a minor thing, to let Erik have what he wanted in exchange for whatever hope Charles could still offer the world. It would be easy—_so easy_—to surrender to Erik; to let Erik dote on him and coddle him. All Charles had to do was to be there with an easy smile and to kiss Erik whenever he wanted it.

Erik would do that for him, Charles knew—if he let him. But Charles wondered what Raven would do if she knew exactly what that cooperation would entail; whether she did know, somehow, that she advocated allowing the leader of the Brotherhood to use her brother for sex. Some mean thread of his mind considered: _maybe_. Maybe her innocent teasing about their relationship was all an act…

_No_. He didn't need to read her mind to know that if Raven knew, she would not do anything so calm and rational as try to talk him into more of the same. Charles longed to tell her, longed to hear what she would say to Erik—and for a moment, he imagined telling her… But no. He couldn't. He…

"I'm only saying that there's another way for you to go about this," Raven told him, bringing up her other hand to join the first in massaging slowly through his hair. "You don't have to be enemies. You don't have to fight at every turn. Just—be a friend. You're good at that; it's what made you so good at putting your resistance together, back in the day. Your—" he heard the fond smirk in her words— "your _X-Men_, I think they called themselves?

"It's what brought us all together, before that," she continued, around Charles' silence. "You slip right into people's lives and know everything about them, when you make the effort to. You know what kind of people they want to be and you inspire them to _be_ that kind of person. That's all it took then; that's all you need to do now."

Charles bared his teeth in a taunt, painful grin. "Yes," he laughed. "I could do that. I… I could try to do that." And the cost would be—what? Only himself; nothing more than his own free will. His _volition_—a word that sounded so much like _volare_: "to fly." As if, so long as he possessed the volition to do so, Charles could simply… Drift away. As if it were a sort of weightlessness.

"Think about the world as a whole," Raven urged, shaking his head a little between her hands. Charles realized, suddenly, that she couldn't see the collar beneath his shirt.

"Please?" Raven asked.

Charles straightened up, pulling his hair from her fingers with a shake. He opened his eyes and blinked at her, surprised by the darkness that had crept up around them. Raven's eyes were no more than a faint glint in the midst of a bent shadow. "All right," Charles told her, feeling very small and alone. "I'll consider it. I promise."

He felt the dread settle around his shoulders like the heavy body of a python; like a tether, keeping him anchored down in his chair.

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**xcii.**

Raven had switched on the lamp and curled up neatly on the couch. She smiled, but Charles was aware more than ever of how different this woman was from the girl who'd snuggled onto his lap while he proofread his thesis aloud. That girl was still there, yes—he could see hints of her in Raven's smirk and the fidgeting curl of her toes—but that brightness did not quite reach her eyes and the purple scar pitting the skin beneath her right clavicle did not want for company.

"I've had to abandon our little human versus mutant appearance experiment," she sighed, tugging her knees closer to her on the couch. "I just don't have time anymore."

"That's all right," Charles assured her, feeling somewhat lost.

Raven granted him a sympathetic pout of her lips. "It seemed important to you," she explained, then lifted her shoulder in a shrug and looked down at her hand.

Charles waited for her to continue, then prompted, "Why don't you have time?"

"Ooh," Raven groaned to herself, shifting her legs around again. "This and that. Mostly—work, I guess. Using the gifts evolution gave me."

Arching his eyebrow, Charles mused, "You haven't been away. If you're spying on anyone, then… You're doing that here?"

"Working from home," Raven confirmed, and then looked at him from the corner of her eye. "Should I be telling you any of this?"

"According to some experts, I'm just as much a part of the Brotherhood as you are," Charles drawled.

"I don't think that still applies—you _have_ all but confessed to trying to overthrow what little government we have," Raven pointed out.

Charles scoffed. "Oh, come now; that hardly makes me unique."

A sly smile crept onto Raven's face. "True, although I could say that many of _those_ Brotherhood members didn't live long enough to lose their membership."

"What life do I have left?" Charles remarked, and then hastened to beat the ensuing silence with: "Anyway, it's not as if I could use the information for political gain."

"It's nothing you couldn't guess," Raven said, shrugging again. "You've already witnessed it first-hand—just people being afraid of change. Things had only just started to settle down into any kind of predictability before you showed up, and now that it looks like Magneto might change things around again—well, they're scared. Nobody knows what to expect and people get stupid when they're afraid."

"So… You're infiltrating your own government?" Charles frowned, and inquired, "To what end? Finding dissidents to silence?"

"Careful," Raven warned, with a wink. "Keep being cheeky and I'll find some way to silence _you_."

"Now, _that_ wasn't warranted," Charles admonished, pushing his eyebrows together in mock seriousness.

Raven's teeth flashed white against the blue of her lips. "No, but I felt like saying it—and who knows? It could still come true! Anyway," she began, picking her hands up and re-folding them on the arm of the couch. "I'm not doing anything quite so drastic, yet. At this stage I'm really just watching; keeping an eye out, listening to what people say when they aren't under the eye of the Brotherhood…"

"Oh, so that's entirely different from what I said, then," Charles quipped.

"It is," Raven protested. "For one thing, we're not silencing them. We're trying to be careful about this, Charles. We're trying to address people's fears, instead of confirming them."

"That's very progressive of you," Charles observed dryly, and Raven frowned at him.

"It is," she assured him. "I told you. Magneto _is_ trying to change."

Charles looked down at the polished shine of his shoe; struck, suddenly, by the ridiculousness of it—wearing his pristine shoes around his rooms when he couldn't even walk in them. And, because it was true, his mind added: _where I'm not even going to be seen by anyone who doesn't already know what I look like without clothes on_. He fought not to shiver.

Blue fingers crept near to his own, and Charles held still while they brushed lightly over the backs of his knuckles. "I was worried about you, Charles," Raven whispered, leaning over to reach him. "…Last night."

"You and everyone else, it seems," Charles muttered, and Raven's fingers closed over his. Her yellow eyes were fixed to his face, and he remembered the bruises again.

"Don't laugh," she chided, too earnestly to make it into a joke. "I was there. I was out with Zeus' men, holding out between the manor and the barracks building. It only took me an hour to learn enough to radio back where to search for you, but I thought for sure they'd find your corpse."

Charles dipped his chin down and curled his lips up awkwardly. "I think I hardly need to tell you that they didn't."

Raven's hand was tight around his fingers, and her eyes sought his. "I didn't know that then. But that's what I'm busy doing, Charles—what a lot of us are working to do. We're trying to keep everyone safe, and that includes you. Okay? We want you to be safe."

Turning his hand around to squeeze hers, Charles stretched his lips into a smile. "By whatever means necessary, right?"

"Exactly," Raven agreed brightly. "Whatever it takes."

.

.

.

**xciii.**

As soon as Raven left and Charles had seen her out the door—hardening his heart against the sound of the steel latch locking back into place—he went back to the couch and pulled himself over, onto the cushions. He sat there, back straight and hands folded in his lap, and stared blankly at the opposite wall.

Charles held himself almost perfectly still for several minutes, until very quickly leaning over and pushing his chair further to the side; out of the way. Then he returned to his carefully posed waiting. He barely breathed; certainly, he didn't allow himself to think. He wasn't sure that he _could_—before, his mind had been a clamor of noise, refusing to latch onto any one thing; now it was in free-fall, ignoring all the hand-holds rushing past.

He thought that he might be all right with that; at least, it helped the time pass more quickly, staying blank like that. He'd stopped worrying about the function of his watch. Here, finally, he'd found the contentedness that he'd so missed, earlier in the day—the unthinking comfort that came from being nothing at all. It wouldn't be so painful, to go back to this; to turn himself into something purely sensual, merely reacting to the world around him.

Charles swallowed, clutched his hands a little more tightly together, and told himself that it was only because he'd been sitting there so long. Certainly not because any part of him was frightened—because it wouldn't be at all like death, would it? Everyone would get to keep on living, after all.

"I don't want to do that," Charles whispered, voice cracking because he'd said it too quietly. He cleared his throat and tried again, slightly louder: "I don't want to lose myself."

But what could he do?

He had no desire to look at his watch, and because the sun had already set Charles could not guess the time except that he felt very tired; exhausted, even. Then again, he'd woken up past eleven that morning after staying up until six, and it had only been a few hours after _that_ when the sun had set. It was enough to confuse _anyone's_ sleep schedule. Not to mention the toll stress took on the human body.

Charles' shoulders slumped, and his knees drooped apart from their prim right-angle readiness. It was tempting—so tempting—to simply go back to bed. Erik, he knew, would find him there; might even leave him in peace, if Charles was honestly tired. He could deal with it all tomorrow…

But no; Charles jerked his back straight again and widened his eyes fiercely at the opposite wall. He had to work this out now, before Erik took it into his own hands—figuratively _or_ literally. He had to decide what to do… He had to…

Charles squinted to focus his vision, blinking rapidly. It was very dark in the room; the lamp glowed warm and yellow beside him but that radiance did not reach across the wooden floor, or to the walls surrounding him. His legs tingled, and he resisted the urge to draw them up beside himself and curl around them.

Circulation through the legs was facilitated by muscles forcing the blood through valves, he recalled; without movement, the blood collected and forced its way back against those valves until they lost their elasticity and fluid pooled permanently in the lower limbs. Charles already had five years of not moving his legs regularly, so now he flexed his calf muscles surreptitiously—his gastrocnemius muscles—wondering self-consciously whether that was actually enough to help. Whether it was even worth correcting for, at this stage…

Charles slid his legs up onto the couch next to him, tugging his shoes off to drop to the floor so that he could fold his knees and tuck his toes down into the cushions. His shins were sore with relief. He wrapped his arms around his chest and huddled down into his shoulders, half-closing his eyes.

He felt very warm, in his suit jacket and cardigan. He felt secure, even though he knew that he was not; that soon, the erstwhile ruler of the world would be coming to visit him and it was very likely that Charles would have to surrender _something_. He knew that it was a bad idea to fall asleep now, _here_: on the couch and vulnerable. But then, where could he go where that _wasn't_ the case?

Charles stared at his watch without reading the time, because the numbers and hands had all oozed into a golden blur. He told himself that he would be fine. Everything would work out; he still had control, for now.

Charles blinked, slowly. Nothing was going to happen to him if he didn't let it…

.

.

.

**xciv.**

Charles heard a clink of metal on metal and jerked his chin up, eyes springing open. He smelled food; he _saw_ food—spätzle and broccoli, prime rib soaked in béarnaise sauce, red wine—and his mouth was already watering. He was _ravenous_.

Then he looked up farther, and met Erik's softly amused regard. Charles closed his mouth quickly and swallowed. Erik had brought him dinner; Erik had brought him a _nice_ dinner, just the one plate and glass, and who knew how long he'd been there, watching Charles sleep?

"I only just set this down," Erik told him, with the suggestion of a chuckle—having anticipated Charles' unasked question. He indicated where the tray sat on the end table, which he'd evidently moved to stand in front of Charles. The telepath tried not to look too relieved, although—what did it matter, really, if Erik _did_ stand around watching him sleep? At least Charles got rest out of the bargain.

All that suspense and now Erik was _there_. Charles felt woefully unprepared; he'd hardly been anything resembling prepared _earlier_, but now he was groggy as well. To collect himself, Charles surveyed his surroundings, avoiding Erik. He glanced down at the steaming food, then around the room until he saw the metal lid by the window. The wine was already in a single glass; there was no bottle. He wasn't sure what had made the noise that woke him up, but he thought that the utensils settling down on the brushed steel of the tray made likely suspects.

Charles nodded, and wet his lips. He stared down at the plate, avoiding Erik's face. He made no move for either knife or fork. "Am I to eat while you watch, then?"

A low, considering noise came from Erik's chest. "I've already had my dinner," he explained, and trailed long fingers over the armrest of the wheelchair. Charles tensed, anticipating that Erik might try to sit down in it—unsure what kind of objection he would make if that happened, only knowing that the chair was _his_—but then Erik turned back to the couch and sank down at the opposite end.

Erik was wearing his Magneto outfit again, although the cape—Charles flicked his eyes away quickly to check—was already hung on the coat tree. A small paperback nestled in his hand, mostly hidden by his fingers. In his red jacket and polished helmet, catching the golden light of the lamp behind Charles' shoulder, Erik almost… _Glowed_. His eyes were very green, in that light, and his skin looked very…

Charles swallowed again, but not because he was drooling, this time. Or at least, not entirely—Erik was staring back at him, brows tilted and with a subtle smile curving his lips. The skin around Erik's eyes had creased up and his fingertips rested lightly on his thigh, moving slightly, thumb stroking, and Charles remembered—he remembered that hand on him, _around_ him, and oh _god_ they'd had _sex_ and if Charles wasn't so hungry at that moment, if his stomach wasn't so mercifully distracting—

"Are you going to eat?" Erik asked. "I did have to hurry to make sure it was still hot by the time I arrived, you know."

Charles tore his attention away; he picked up the wine glass and hid behind it. "You still have me eating like a king, I see," he remarked.

Erik's smile tipped into a smirk. "Someone has to," he reasoned, "if not the king himself."

Charles paused, with the delicate glass brushing his lower lip. The smell of the wine filled his nose like a physical presence. _Cabernet Sauvignon_, he guessed, not without authority. "I'm not sure I'd believe you if you told me this isn't exactly the same meal _you_ were served for dinner. Did you like it so much that you ordered another?"

With a smooth, elegant shift of his body, Erik lifted one leg to drape over the knee of the other. He raised his eyebrows. "You're right in one respect—that _is_ the exact same meal served to me. I thought you might appreciate it more." At Charles' squint of confusion, Erik went on to clarify, "It seemed a… _Waste_, to have such nice food when I barely… Well, it seemed like you might appreciate it more, at least."

Charles sipped at his wine; he was not so expert that he could name the winery or vintage, as he tended to care more about function than prestige, but he could appreciate the taste. "Don't let yourself starve," he advised. "I might still require you."

"Is that so," Erik rumbled, but since it sounded hypothetical, Charles ignored him and simply picked up his knife and fork. He invited no further conversation while he ate and Erik didn't offer, although Charles could feel his eyes clinging to his every movement.

The food was exquisite—it was entirely possible that Charles had tasted better and he was fairly certain that he had, but absence _did_ in fact make the heart grow fonder, it seemed. Cows had suffered rather more through the war than smaller domestic animals, so while Charles had not grown unaccustomed to meat—a luxury in and of itself—it had indeed been some time since he'd tasted _red_ meat, and he'd forgotten just how rich and succulent it could be. Charles tried not to waste any; even choked down the gristle that he might have otherwise simply cut off, earlier in his life.

Charles had just begun to eye his plate and wonder whether it would really be so terribly rude to smear the side of his finger over it when Erik cleared his throat, and the geneticist cringed in surprise.

"Was it good?" Erik asked, from his side of the couch.

Charles looked over his shoulder at the man, who didn't appear to have moved at all from his artful sprawl, watching with shadowed eyes. Now that he had eaten, Charles felt his drowsiness return, and… He really didn't want to do this; not tonight. He didn't want to bring his wits to bear against Erik; he wasn't so sure that he _had_ wits to spare, right then.

There was no choice, however—or rather, there _was_, but in order to make that choice in the future—well, Charles couldn't do _anything_, one way or the other, if he was confined to his rooms. He needed to get out, and to get out—he needed Erik.

Charles lowered his eyelids, only half-feigning his sleepy contentment—his body was satisfied, regardless of what _he_ thought—and dragged a finger along the bottom of the plate. When he brought it up again, a drop ran down toward his palm, and Charles darted in to catch it with his tongue; it spread in a shock of cream and oil. He tried not to be awkward about it—tried to recover some of that deliberate grace—but Erik was paying him a keen sort of attention that lead Charles to believe that the other man didn't much care.

Fighting to control the nervous flush of his skin, Charles smiled at Erik and offered his finger, angling his hand to prevent further dripping. Béarnaise sauce, butter, and meat juices—fat, fat, fat, and salt, essentially, but Charles doubted that Erik swayed forward out of real hunger.

"Try for yourself?" Charles suggested, forcing nonchalant confidence into his words.

One of Erik's eyebrows tilted incredulously, but clearly he wasn't _too_ concerned because he leaned over and almost _prowled_ down the couch, pulling his shoulders over with the walk of his hands. Erik's legs uncrossed, narrow hips turning over as he bent his knee up under his body and pushed himself that last little ways down the couch; then Erik was _right there_, breath light on Charles' hand and his long eyelashes hiding his eyes as he looked down at Charles' proffered finger.

_Why did I think this was a good idea,_ a distant part of Charles despaired, as Erik met his eyes again and smiled slowly—indulgently, almost; as if this were something that _Charles_ wanted and Erik was doing him a favor.

Erik steadied Charles' hand with a loose grip around his wrist—Charles was surprised to see that it was indeed shaking; was _surprised_ to be surprised—then Erik angled his head around and, without further warning, wrapped his tongue around Charles' finger.

Charles stared, vaguely aware that he'd been considering saying something witty, but he had no idea what it had been and now he was watching Erik' eyes close as he opened his mouth and drew Charles' finger in between lips and teeth. Charles' knuckles brushed against Erik's cheek, inside the wall of the helmet, and Charles couldn't _see_ Erik's tongue, but—well, he could certainly _feel_ it, and it was… Very warm. _Slick_. And damp. Also—warm; the unexpected _heat_ inside Erik's mouth was… Startling. And surely his finger must be clean by now?

Erik's eyelids opened heavily, watching him with drugged lethargy, but Charles couldn't look away when Erik slid his finger out of his mouth, slipping over wet lips. Then Erik began to lick in _between_ his fingers, ticking the webbing there with the roughness of his tongue and tracing along Charles' other fingers each in turn.

"You'll make my hand sticky," Charles found voice to protest, barely.

Erik smiled at him—a predatory, creeping expression that did absolutely nothing to loosen the tangle of words caught in Charles' throat—and leaned forward to kiss him. Charles didn't hold his breath when Erik's lips touched his—he was barely breathing enough already, he didn't want to risk passing out, after all—and when he felt the tip of Erik's tongue tease the line of his mouth, Charles opened to him; let that tongue dip in and taste him from within.

Drawing back just far enough to meet Charles' eyes, Erik smiled. "I like the way that you taste better," he murmured.

Charles stared back at him and replied, vowels going high-pitched and squeaking, "…I'm not on the menu." Then, realizing what he'd just implied—damn it, he'd meant the _opposite_, he was supposed to be _seducing_ Erik—Charles hurried to clarify, "That is. I mean. Not… Literally." He lowered his eyelids and looked up through them at Erik in what he hoped was a coquettish sort of way, and the other man raised his brows again.

"You're really terribly transparent at seduction, Charles," Erik commented, straightening up and putting space between them.

Charles frowned, then curled one corner of his mouth up, deliberately. "Is it working at all?" he asked.

Erik exhaled sharply through his nose. "It's endearingly manipulative, but I have no use for fantasy." His gaze shifted back to Charles' face, expression indifferent. "I'm not so deluded that I'm unaware of what I've done to you."

Erik's hand, still on Charles' elbow, began to slip away, and the geneticist caught Erik's fingers between his own as they passed. Trying to ignore the fact that those same fingers were still damp from Erik licking them—and feeling his blush start up again because of it—Charles protested, "But I… Last night, you… And I…" Oh, _god_ he was blushing even worse now—why couldn't he say it? It was only _sex_, after all, he wasn't anything _like_ virginal, and he _enjoyed_ being bluntly forward, usually. But now Erik was looking at him with pitying patience, and Charles found himself stammering to a halt under that regard.

"I touched you, and your body responded," Erik explained, squeezing Charles' hand before letting it go. "That's all. And perhaps you do find some things about me to be… _Intriguing_, but I assure you: you'll come to your senses soon enough."

Charles scrutinized Erik's face, lined with weariness but strict with honesty. "Can't it be more complicated than that?" And he _really_ hadn't meant to sound that indignant; _oh dear_, this really wasn't going well, was it?

Erik quirked up his lips, and reached out his hand again to set beneath Charles' chin. "I've always known, Charles. I always knew that you wouldn't kiss me back, even all those years ago," Erik told him; then he wrapped his fingers around Charles' jaw and lowered his voice to add, "That is, unless you _had_ to."

Charles held himself still in Erik's grasp, staring back into those dark eyes. _Very green_, he thought again, in that light—and for all that Erik glowered at him now, and for all that what Erik said might well be true… Charles could not find it in himself to be angry. Instead, he felt—betrayal; disappointment; grief? Charles wasn't sure which.

Charles raised his own hand up to cradle Erik's neck, just below the helmet. "Then why?" he whispered, ragged.

Erik's eyebrows tipped back—only a little, only for a moment—and some emotion flashed over his face, in the wideness of his eyes and the falter of his mouth; then it was gone, twisted by a snarl. Charles felt a tug around his neck—the collar—and suddenly he was yanked close, Erik's hand in his hair tipping back his head. Charles held his breath as Erik's eyes bore into his, and as warm air from the other man's open mouth gusted over his face.

"_Because_," Erik growled, flexing his fingers in Charles' hair. The geneticist made a low noise of discomfort at the pain in his scalp; in response, Erik pressed him in closer, against his chest. "Because I _wanted_ to. Because—it doesn't _matter_ anymore."

"Does it—" Charles grunted— "Does it really not matter how you treat a friend, now? Is it no longer worth it to _try_?"

Erik leaned down, lips brushing the corner of Charles' mouth. "You tell me—would it change your opinion of me if I stopped tonight?"

"_Yes_," Charles gasped, back contorted uncomfortably to fit beneath Erik. He stared into Erik's eyes as he said it, trying to tell him without telepathy—_true, it's true, _believe_ me_—even though he wasn't sure at all—and the skin around Erik's eyes had creased in doubt, in consideration—

But then those elegant brows furrowed down, and Charles saw the wrinkles of another snarl on the bridge of Erik's nose, vanishing under the beak of the helmet. "_Liar_," Erik hissed, giving Charles' hair a sharp shake. "Nobody's _that_ naïve, Charles, least of all _me_. And—I don't _care_ what you think, because I have you exactly where I _want_ you now."

Then he pushed forward, crushing his mouth against Charles', except that this time Charles didn't open to him; he kept his lips pressed tightly together as Erik _growled_ against them—Charles felt the vibration of it—and then Erik simply abandoned the kiss in favor of pulling Charles' shirt collar aside and sinking his teeth into the junction of neck and shoulder. It was a familiar enough gesture but now Charles yelped and tried to twist away, because this time there was no teasing behind it; no sensuality. This time it actually _hurt_, as if Erik were about to rip a chunk out of him.

Charles pushed at the other man with his hands, pain tearing through his arm as his muscles twisted in Erik's jaws until finally Erik stopped, teeth still sharp in Charles' neck—then, slowly, he drew them out and lapped his tongue over the indentations while Charles lay tense and immobile in his grasp, panting with adrenalin.

Erik took his tongue away, too, and then exhaled over the bite. Charles' skin, already flushing hot with inflammation, cooled as the saliva evaporated. "But we can still be civil," Erik murmured, pressing a soft kiss where his teeth had been. "We still have that, at least."

Charles gave into a helplessly bitter laugh. Civil; yes, of course they could still be _civil_. What was a little molestation between friends, after all? What was a little _pain_ and torture?

Erik released him, and Charles caught himself with a hasty grab for the armrest of the couch as Erik composed himself on the next cushion over.

"I didn't come here for this," Erik said, smoothing his trousers over his thighs with an absent stroke of his hands as he looked over toward his hanging cape. Then he twisted, and picked up the book from the opposite armrest; it almost vanished in his hand. "I had been hoping to read this to you."

"I certainly can't stop you," Charles murmured. He reached up to rub at his neck, glancing over at Erik in case he had the gall to forbid him from it—but Erik hardly looked at him before flipping through the first few pages and tucking his thumb between them. Then he lifted his arm, rested his elbow on the back of the couch, and watched Charles expectantly, eyes glinting in the light of the lamp.

Charles paused with his hand beneath his collar and frowned at Erik, because the man expected him to _cuddle_? After being _gnawed_ on? But evidently he did, because Erik raised his eyebrows and kept still, waiting.

Staring back at him, Charles resumed massaging the bite and considered. He could say any number of disparaging things to Erik—and Erik _deserved_ them—but… He'd set out to seduce Erik, hadn't he? And god, wasn't _that_ an enjoyable prospect now.

_Focus_, Charles told himself. His pulse still fluttered in his throat—distracting. Only… Erik had never really caused him pain, before this; even when he'd made Charles pass out, it hadn't _hurt_. Did he think himself free to, now that Charles had proven himself untrustworthy?

Charles blinked to clear his head again; Erik continued to wait, eyes glinting. It was almost… It was almost as if Erik was deliberately _trying_ to prove him wrong. Every time Charles insisted that Erik could do better… He did worse.

Examining Erik with fresh consideration, Charles thought: _Interesting_. That was… Interesting. And if true… Well. He wasn't sure what that would mean, and he certainly wasn't going to try and figure it out _now_. It changed nothing, in the short term—except that he had some guide to prevent Erik from doing it again, at least. _How comforting_.

Finally, Charles sighed in exasperation, dropped his hand from his neck, and scooted over. He braced himself before settling in against Erik's side, and as Erik's arm wrapped around him and Erik's body heat seeped though his jacket, Charles shivered. He looked down to where Erik's hand spread over his chest, fingertips dimpling his cardigan; he could almost see that line of turbulence where Erik's lethargic heat mixed with his own cold horror. Charles' creeping malaise, which had fled in the struggle, returned anew.

"What did you bring?" Charles asked, without trying to see. He attempted to sit as if he were in fact _not_ leaning against Erik's side.

Erik's voice came from near his ear. "_Fahrenheit 451_." Then he added, rather unnecessarily: "By Bradbury."

"I would have thought that it'd strike too close to home," Charles commented.

"You're cheeky tonight," Erik remarked, tightening his hold on Charles. "But I don't encourage blind belief and miseducation. It's not that close."

Charles turned his head slightly; not enough to see Erik's face but simply to signal his closer attention. "Don't you? What about this city that you've been trying to convince people to believe in?"

"I wasn't under the impression that your city was a fool's errand," Erik told him, fingers plucking at the edge of Charles' jacket. The telepath felt him shift, and Erik turned the book over to look at the title. "'Fahrenheit.' Hm. In another generation, no one will know what that means."

"Ah, yes—your worldwide metrification."

"It's not as if the rest of the world wouldn't have switched over anyway, given time," Erik said. "You can hardly hold that against me."

"I'm not," Charles protested. "I'm a scientist—I support anything that makes my job easier. That is—" Charles hastened to clarify— "anything that doesn't hurt people."

"You grew up using Imperial," Erik stated, sounding amused; "Surely, switching over couldn't have been painless."

Charles shrugged, and his shoulder nudged up into Erik's arm. He didn't bother correcting Erik, since it hardly mattered that he'd grown up with US customary as well. "I drilled myself in it."

"Oh?" Erik asked, and tipped the book toward Charles. "Tell me, then—what would you call this, in metric?"

Charles glanced down without interest. It'd been a very long time since he'd set out to memorize the conversions—he'd been eleven; long before he had any real reason to—and since then he'd rarely needed to deal with any large number not already in Celsius. Charles, however, had memorized the equivalencies between every increment of fifty in both systems up to two thousand degrees, and four hundred fifty-one was near enough to four hundred fifty that it didn't matter. There was no challenge at all.

Still, Charles had his pride; he narrowed his eyes, preformed a quick addition in his head, and answered, "Roughly five hundred and five."

Erik was silent for a moment; then: "Kelvin. You _are_ being cheeky tonight."

"You're being patronizing," Charles countered. "Ask if you want, but don't be surprised if I do, in fact, know the things that I claim to."

There was a low chuckle behind him, and Erik's fingers spread out over his chest as the man leaned down to nuzzle into Charles' hair. "Of course you do," Erik murmured. "I should expect nothing less. Now—would you like me to read?"

If Charles were to be honest, he didn't—because he knew, just as well as he knew the conversion between Fahrenheit and Celsius, that as soon as Erik stopped reading—Charles would have to try to seduce him again, whether he'd been bitten or not. He would much rather focus on Bradbury's novel than on what he could say to Erik, or what would happen after.

Regardless, Charles nodded, and Erik held him close as he cleared his throat softly and began, "Part one: the Hearth and the Salamander. _'It was a pleasure to burn. It was a pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and _changed…'"

Charles' heart fluttered in his chest. The bite ached, now that he no longer had the task of clashing wits with Erik to distract him. He could only be glad that his skin hadn't broken—but then, Erik would never be so sloppy as to do something such as that unintentionally. If he _had_ meant to, though…

_He didn't_, Charles told himself, because it was true. Because he was increasingly sure that the bite was merely part of some childish tantrum. But if he _had_… Well. Erik was certainly _capable_ of hurting him, if unwilling; but obviously not _entirely_ unwilling, it seemed. And… It would be very easy, to be hurt again.

_At least I won't be walking strangely after_, Charles thought to himself, fighting not to give into a small, hysterical giggle. Not that it would necessarily come to that, of course; if he could help it. After all, Erik had been so indignant the _last_ time that Charles had been willing to wager everything.

And Erik's approval was, of course, the most important aspect of that arrangement; not whether it was _right_, or anything so quaint as that.

"'…_Her head was half bent to watch her shoes stir the circling leaves. Her face was slender and milk-white, and in it was a gentle hunger that touched over everything with tireless curiosity. It was a look, almost, of pale surprise; the dark eyes were so fixed to the world that no move escaped them._'"

Despite the difference of pronoun, Charles could tell from the way Erik's fingers clutched into his chest that Erik was imagining _him_ on that street corner. A chill passed down his spine before melting away in Erik's warmth; Charles might not have read _Fahrenheit 451_ before, but a newly-adult Raven had loved it dearly.

Although she preferred to take an author's writing at face value, Raven had stopped in the middle of her enthusiastic review to muse, "It's really not much of a romance. It's like—she seduces him with an idea, and he falls in love with the idea, not with her." Then she had stopped, and grinned at him. "I thought maybe if I said it like that, you'd read it."

Charles had been intrigued, back then, but it still hadn't been quite enough to convince him to take a break from his schoolwork and read it for himself. Now, though—_here_—Charles felt in some way the secretive thrill of prophecy; as if some American author who might already be dead had, more than twenty years ago, seen some glimpse of them now and had graciously disguised their identities on the page.

Only that was ridiculous, of course, because the book was nothing _like_ his life.

Charles half-closed his eyes to prove to himself that he was in fact not very interested, and since Erik made a convenient pillow, he rested his head back on the man's ample deltoid. Erik's reading voice sounded almost breathless with Bradbury's commas, and Charles amused himself for a while by thinking of how different this voice was from that of Magneto. So much lighter; almost tenuous. Wistfully strident.

"'_He saw himself in her eyes, suspended in two shining drops of bright water, himself dark and tiny, in fine detail, the lines about his mouth, everything there, as if her eyes were two miraculous bits of violet amber that might capture and hold him intact. Her face, turned to him now, was fragile milk crystal with a soft and constant light in it. It was not the hysterical light of electricity but—what? But the strangely comfortable and rare and gently flattering light of the candle. One time, as a child, in a power failure, his mother had found and lit a last candle and there had been a brief hour of rediscovery, of such illumination that space lost its vast dimensions and drew comfortably around them, and they, mother and son, alone, transformed, hoping that the power might not come on again too soon…_'"

There were ellipses on the page, but Erik's silence was his own. Charles waited, unaware that he was holding his breath until Erik's fingers slid out from between the pages and he closed the book. Then Charles exhaled.

Still, Erik said nothing.

Charles drew in a deep lungful of air to steady himself, and then raised up the leg closest to Erik. He tried to copy the other man's simple economy of movement as he circled his ankle around Erik's shins and laid his thigh over Erik's lap.

"What do you want, Charles?" Erik asked, sounding tired. He'd moved the book out of Charles' way and made no move to initiate any further contact.

"I want to be able to leave my rooms again," Charles declared, keeping his voice even. As if they were discussing what to have for lunch.

He felt Erik's chest jump with silent, bitter laughter. "I thought you hated bargaining with me."

"I do," Charles admitted, pressing the arch of his foot to Erik's leg, opposite. Flattery hadn't worked; perhaps honesty might. Or, at least—half-honesty. Charles no longer had the energy to lie, anyway. "But I also want to get out."

Erik didn't answer immediately, although his fingers closed in a slow fist in the fabric of Charles' cardigan. "You committed treason," he said, finally. "I gave you access to my headquarters because I trusted you, and you abused that trust."

"You've allowed people with far greater powers than mine get away with worse."

"If I was only worried about your telepathy, Charles, I would let you out in an instant," Erik explained. "Your words are far more dangerous. I don't believe for a moment that you had to _make_ anyone do anything, to accomplish what you did."

"I can't stay here," Charles whispered. Then he fell uncomfortably silent, because it seemed like anything he could say to elaborate might be entirely _too_ honest.

Erik moved behind him, hugging him close and pressing his nose to the top of Charles' head. "I can't trust you," he murmured.

Charles wrapped his fingers around Erik's, holding the other man's hand to his chest. He kept his leg over Erik's lap, although his better judgment clamored for him to move it, arguing that he embarrassed himself enough already. But—he had his resolve, after all. "I want to bargain for another chance."

Erik disentangled his hand from Charles' and moved it instead to the telepath's chin, pulling his head back onto Erik's shoulder. Charles shivered as Erik's breath teased over his neck, and lips brushed below his ear. He thought of Erik's teeth. "What are you trying to do, Charles?" he asked. "Are you trying to convince me—" his voice lowered to a growl— "that I can _fuck_ you into being trustworthy again?"

Charles moistening his lips and flexed his leg over Erik's thighs, drawing himself half onto Erik's lap. His toes, in their black dress socks, wrapped around Erik's shin; a daily victory of motion, uncelebrated. He tried to relax, to sink in against Erik, but every one of the muscles along his spine clutched at him, unwilling. "If," he began, then swallowed and started again: "If you want to."

He heard the low hiss of Erik drawing breath. "I'm fairly certain it doesn't work that way."

Charles clenched his teeth, stared down at his legs, and willed himself to relax. Slowly, his knees fell to their sides and he lay back against Erik's shoulder. His skin tingled with the effort of staying there as Erik's hand caressed his throat in passing and then moved down to his waist. "Doesn't it?" Charles asked. "After all, I think… Clearly I have to trust _you_, to let you. Touch me. Like this."

Erik's hand caressed Charles' side. "You're shaking," he commented.

It appeared to be true. Charles closed his eyes and exhaled, finding that he hadn't relaxed after all, except that he had been wound so tightly to begin with. He tried again, and this time succeeded; he sank into Erik, inhaled again, and opened his eyes. "I'm nervous," Charles admitted. "I think that's reasonable."

"Mm," Erik grunted, returning his mouth to Charles' neck. "If it's a matter of trust… I'll bargain with you, Charles."

"Really?" Charles turned his head to peer back at Erik. "Well, then, I offer—"

"_No_," Erik interrupted; he grasped the inside of Charles' thigh around the cover of _Fahrenheit 451_ and tugged the telepath over to straddle him fully. Charles stared down at where book and hand held him spread open, eyes wide. "No, I think it's only fair that if I'm to risk everything by letting you out, even under guard—which you _will_ be—then I get to demand the same of you. So _that_ is the bargain. I'll let you return to your previous duties in exchange for _everything_. In exchange for _you_, yourself."

Charles swallowed, still staring. Erik's legs pressed up between his own, warm and firm with muscle, and the sight was… Somewhat distracting. "This very instant?"

Erik's voice was a deadly purr. "_Forever_."

"You have a very impressive view of my stamina," Charles remarked, faintly.

Erik chuckled, and Charles was intently aware Erik's body jerking beneath him as he laughed. "I wasn't referring to your body, Charles."

He'd known. "I thought that I was… _Yours_… Already," Charles said, moistening his lips.

A low growl rumbled through him from Erik's chest, and the other man removed book and hand to frame Charles' hips as he nudged Charles' legs further apart with his knees. The telepath sucked in air; he felt lightheaded, almost dizzy, soaking in the heat from Erik's lap.

"Thank you for thinking so," Erik murmured low into his ear. There was a touch on Charles' throat, and he realized with a sort of lethargic interest that the gold collar was snaking over his skin, writhing around his neck and caressing over his pulse. It didn't seem about to choke him, however, so Charles didn't protest.

"You never struck me as romantic," Charles mused, speaking simply to speak. He didn't want to dwell on what his body was doing—and what _was_ his body doing? It seemed content just to drape itself over Erik. He felt pliant and malleable, like the gold around his neck. "I thought that if you ever spoke about the human heart, it'd undoubtedly be literal."

"I don't literally want your heart," Erik assured him. "I want your permission to cut you open and rip it out of you."

Charles hesitated. "…Are we still speaking literally?"

"Yes," Erik confirmed, and the collar around Charles' neck felt… _Different_. It tickled over his carotid artery, scraping with a freshly razor-sharp edge. "If you really trust me so much, then you shouldn't be afraid to grant me that permission."

"Your logic is marvelously circular," Charles said, resisting the urge to lean his neck away. His heart beat in his chest, but he still felt strangely calm. It was true, he realized; he _didn't_ fear that Erik would kill him. Whatever else Erik might do, Erik wouldn't allow him to come to serious harm.

That was not, however, the detail that concerned Charles. "If you're trying to make me promise to… To _love_ you, then I feel I should warn you: people don't work that way."

"I don't expect you to sing my praises and flutter your eyelashes at me," Erik said, squeezing his fingers around Charles' hips. The telepath bit the interior of his cheek; Erik wasn't, well, very _aroused_, yet, but he could still… _Feel_ him, there. Charles' legs tried to twitch inward, and succeeded only in pressing up against Erik's. It ached where the other man's knees drove into his thighs—but in a pleasant sort of way, like a healing bruise.

"I only ask that you… _Pledge_ yourself to me," Erik continued. "Anything that I want to do to you—allow me to. Anything that I ask you to do—do it, as well as you are able. Trust me not to hurt you. Be _mine_."

Charles turned his head until he could see, from the corner of his eye, the barest sliver of Erik's face. "That doesn't sound like a request that can be described with 'only.'"

A wry smile teased at Erik's mouth. "True—but it will be my only offer. If it isn't worth it to you, don't accept."

Charles stared, eyebrows furrowed, and then—with the smolder and curl of a leaf flashing into flame—he was angry; gritting his teeth to ask: "So what does that leave me, then? I'll be once free and twice a prisoner—all for the _privilege_ of doing what most sane people would _pay_ me to do."

"You'll have everything within my power to give you," Erik assured him, frowning.

"And what is that worth? You can't even stock my bookshelves," Charles pointed out, gesturing sharply toward his study. "Am I supposed to be content, going to work with your minions during the day and returning to my rooms in the evening to satisfy _you_?" Then he stopped, and flicked his gaze up to the ceiling. "Oh, but that's right—you don't really want to have sex with me at all, do you? No, you're pure and noble and all you want is unparalleled access to my pleasant—"

Erik's fingers ran down the arc of Charles' pelvis, toward his groin, and the telepath stopped with a gasp and a shudder. "Of course I find you attractive, in many ways," Erik explained patiently. "But I'm not a beast, driven to indulge my every passing desire. You're not just a body to me, and you're not negotiating with my cock—which, admittedly, has much… _Simpler_ cravings. You're dealing with _me_, and I _do_ crave your pleasant company. I desire your consideration and wit; I want your attention; I _require_ your obedience. Give them to me, because you already possess mine."

Charles barked a laugh. "In what way are _you_ obedient to _me_?"

There was a growl over his shoulder. "Try me, and find out."

"Well—you've been very careful not to show too much of yourself to me. You'd rather sweat through all your layers of clothing than show me a glimpse of your bare forearm, even while you have me _nude_ and writhing beneath you," Charles explained. "So tell me; would you object if I wanted to fuck _you_?"

Charles immediately regretted asking, because when Erik's voice slid low and languid into his ear, it was to ask: "Do you want to?"

"Uh," Charles grunted, and had to pull his mind away from an astonishingly vivid, tactile image of himself, fitted between Erik's legs, hands wrapped around Erik's narrow waist and rutting enthusiastically into him while Erik's head rolled back onto the pillow in helpless ecstasy. After all, the present situation couldn't be more different—Erik was pressed up against _his_ arse, instead. _Fuck_, he thought, and then added, for his own clarification, _Figuratively speaking_.

"Not especially," Charles muttered, without enthusiasm. "Let's abandon that hypothetical, shall we?"

"If you like." Erik had the grace not to sound _too_ smug, but he shattered that illusion by scraping his teeth over the skin beneath Charles' ear, then setting his lips to it.

Charles drove his fingernails into his own palms and drew a long, deep breath. _Calm_, he told himself, and said aloud, "No, you're not after sex, I'll grant you that. You could have had me a dozen different ways by now if that were the case."

Erik made a low noise of agreement, moving his hands up to scratch at Charles' ribs through his clothing, and the telepath shivered, pressing back against Erik.

"I'm trying to—talk—" Charles protested, grabbing for Erik's hands.

Erik caught one of Charles' wrists and lifted it to his mouth, reaching out his tongue to play over where the blue veins snaked over tendon. "So talk," he offered, lips brushing against the creases that separated the pink swell of Charles' hand from the pale skin of his arm.

Charles swallowed thickly—at least if Erik was mouthing at his hand, then he wasn't groping Charles. Not that it was much less distracting, but… "You're after control. You already control my body, or do enough that you feel it's… Well, already within your… Hands. You already control my life. Now you want to control _me_, too."

Erik abandoned Charles' hand in favor of grasping his jaw, and he angled Charles' head to face him, meeting the geneticist's stare with half-lidded eyes. "_Yes_," he breathed, touching his nose to Charles' face; tracing it over the bruise on his cheek. "The mighty Charles Xavier—_mine_, in every way. I would like that."

Erik hissed in air and pulled Charles around further, darting down to halt a scant millimeter away from devouring Charles' mouth. "Give that to me," he demanded. "Give yourself to me so that I can give you want _you_ want. Submit yourself to me, and I'll give you the world."

"I don't want to _be_ yours," Charles protested, pushing his hand into Erik's chest. His legs pressed in, against Erik's. "I don't want the world—I just want to be a _scientist_."

"You will," Erik insisted. "And—you said it yourself. The only differences between this and what _you_ offered to me are the words. So show me your obedience; grant me permission to take your control away from you, and then think whatever you want."

_Words_, Charles reflected. Mere words—did they matter, if they weren't sincere? _If a tree falls in a forest… If I make a promise I don't intend to fulfill…_ Because he wouldn't give himself over to Erik; he would never _be_ Erik's. And, even if he pretended to… Well, it wouldn't _be_ forever, would it? Charles, after all, had no intention of remaining under Erik's control.

Charles thought of Raven—briefly, because he didn't want to associate her with whatever came next—and wished he could apologize. Now that he was presented with the opportunity, almost gift-wrapped and given to him, he knew that he could not accept it; he could not sit idly by and allow Erik to continue. It was not in his nature to give in; Charles knew it, he was fairly certain that Erik knew it, and if Raven didn't as well—then she invited her own disappointment.

Erik's eyes were close, and they looked astonishingly _real_; as if up until that point they had been no more than an indication of Erik's attention, a mere idea of sight. Now Charles could see the ribbons of muscle weaving through his irises; the brush of pink capillaries through iridescent sclera; the three-dimensional black bulge of his pupils—they were the eyes of an animal, and entirely human.

"You would have asked me to do this anyway," Charles accused him. "And you'll keep asking, until I agree."

Erik swayed forward and touched his lips to Charles'; lightly, only just tracing their curve. Then he pulled back again. "I might," he conceded. His eyelashes dipped as he looked down Charles' face, and the geneticist felt a flick of his tongue as Erik moistened his own lips. "Mm… The things I could do to you, Charles."

For a moment, Charles' mind flashed to exactly _what_ Erik could do to him—and where he could do those things; there was the desk in the study, for instance, or the table by the window, or even, more conventionally, the bed or couch—then he cleared his throat, lifted his chin over Erik's hand, and turned his head to the side. He shifted his hips in a way that almost certainly wasn't discreet at all, since _any_ slight movement was made obvious when preformed on someone's lap, but his own trousers were starting to become rather… Uncomfortable.

"I'm sure," Charles agreed, still looking away. Thoughts and words were often different; he'd known that almost for as long as he could remember. People said one thing and felt another all the time; in fact, it was almost the _rule_, rather than the exception. Society was _based_ on that discordance, and Charles was no different. He could play the game, and because he knew what to guard against, he would not lose himself. He could bide his time.

Charles turned back to Erik, studying the tilt of his chin and the wry curve of his mouth. "What would you like me to do?" Charles asked, and felt his heart stutter into a frenzy as one part of his mind, surely the more rational, realized _oh, god, you're agreeing to this, you _idiot—even while _another_ part of him gleefully siphoned that blood away in preparation for the consequences. He blinked to clear his head enough to sound sure of himself when he inquired, "I suppose I could start by sucking you off?"

Erik chuckled softly, baring teeth in a grin. "This is the third time you've made a pass at me, Charles—if I didn't know better, I'd almost think you were _eager_ for it." He rolled his hips up against Charles, and for a moment the geneticist's mind fizzed blank except for _penis, that's his penis, I can _feel_ it_; then he blushed because it had left his body aching for _more_ and he would sooner pass out from holding his own breath than grind back down onto Erik—except it appeared that he already had, _hm_. Charles wondered idly how many layers separated them; it would depend on whether Erik wore anything under his trousers. He seemed like the sort of person who might go without.

"I…" Charles struggled to divide his attention between trying to deny being "eager for it" and evaluating whether he might, in fact, _like_ touching Erik. After all, he'd enjoyed the few times that he'd been with women who could put aside their bewildered embarrassment at being pleasured without giving pleasure in return—strange and sad, how half the human race was instructed that their desires were unnatural—and he'd been good at it, using his telepathy to guide fingers and tongue. Fellatio couldn't be more difficult than that, even without telepathy, but—but this was _Erik_, who had, less than an hour ago, _chewed_ on him—

—And Erik had cupped his right hand between Charles' legs, flattening the book against Charles' belly with the left to pull the telepath back against him. Pinned in place by the book, Charles could do no more than flex his thighs around Erik's and whine low in his throat when that didn't push him up into Erik's hand.

Erik's mouth touched the shell of his ear; his voice was rough as mountain gravel. "No, I think I prefer seeing you come apart under my hands. I'd make you beg… But you already do that well enough on your own."

"Go to hell," Charles panted, going still in Erik's grasp. It was tortuous, to lay motionless against those large, warm hands, but it was one thing to admit to liking them there and quite another to let Erik _gloat_ about it was well.

Erik hummed in consideration, and then pronounced, "Well then, if you have nothing _nice_ to say…" He brought the book up again, turning it around in his long fingers until the spine faced out from his palm. Charles had already been still, but now he _froze_ as Erik touched the spine of the book to his lower lip, and he peered down the cover at Erik's winter-chafed fingers. Surely he couldn't mean…?

Erik nudged the book against Charles' lips. "Go on," he purred. "Open." Erik pulled his free hand over the bulge of Charles' cock and the geneticist shuddered with the effort to remain silent and closed-mouthed.

"_Charles_," Erik growled into his ear, "You promised me." And—so he had, Charles realized. With a quiet whimper—almost a sob—he opened his mouth and let Erik slide _Fahrenheit 451_ between his teeth until its binding pushed against his cheeks.

Charles felt Erik's lips on his neck, just above where he'd bitten down earlier. "I won't hurt you again," Erik assured him, moving his free hand up to smooth Charles' cardigan down over his stomach. His left hand remained in place, holding the book in Charles' mouth. "And because you resisted me—_this_ stays where it is until we're done."

Because he couldn't speak, Charles narrowed his eyes at the opposite wall and hissed out over the cover of the book. In reply, Erik laughed low by his ear and dipped his hand down along Charles' stomach, burying his fingers beneath belt and trousers. Then Erik curled his fingers and scratched up, pulling out Charles' shirt as the geneticist arched up off of his lap.

Charles twisted his head into Erik's chest and the book followed. "Now," Erik murmured, seizing Charles' belt in his hand and angling the buckle out from his waist. "Undo this for me, please."

Charles fumbled to find his belt—he couldn't look down past the book—and tugged at the buckle with more violence than skill. His hand pressed against Erik's, and the clasp came undone as if on its own.

Erik's mouth pressed against his temple. "Now your trousers," he ordered. Charles hesitated, then did as he said; the pull of the zipper shuddered along his half-hard penis.

Erik's hand slipped in beneath his, against the soft cotton of Charles' briefs. "Mm. I like the way you feel. You're…" He stroked down, outlining the shaft between fingers and thumb. When he traced around the head, Charles melted into Erik with a tiny, muffled groan.

The geneticist felt Erik smile against his temple. "But I think I'd prefer if you took matters into your _own_ hands tonight."

Charles tried to turn his head to see Erik's face, but _Fahrenheit 451_ bit into his cheek. He couldn't look down either, but he could feel as Erik's hand moved out from his trousers and settled against his hip, tucking into the waistband. "Lift up a little," Erik demanded.

_Oh_, Charles realized. _He wants me to help strip myself_. Well, that was easy enough; he pushed himself up from Erik's legs—and at the same time, back into his chest—and Erik tugged down trousers and briefs together, first one side then the other. He stopped, however, with Charles' hips only just barely exposed; then Erik pressed his hand into the dark curls of Charles' pubic hair and shoved him down again.

Charles grunted as he fell back, and felt his molars dent into the cover of the book. He forced his jaws open again; bad enough to be gagged by a book—worse to ruin it in the process. Especially since Erik would then probably keep it forever as a reminder.

The starched fabric of Erik's trousers scratched against his bare skin, and the line of Erik's erection had invited itself to lie perfectly in the cleft of his arse, but Charles' attention whisked away from that when Erik reached down into the gap between his legs and pants and untucked his cock—before simply setting it back down on the elastic of Charles' briefs and retreating his fingers to the crease between hip and thigh.

Erik lifted his mouth from Charles' temple and moved to instead nuzzle into the hair behind Charles' ear. His words were lethargic with lust. "Charles. I want you to jerk yourself off."

Charles went still, tilting his head as far as he could: not far at all. His eyebrows furrowed, and he rocked up against Erik's hand questioningly. "_Hn?_"

A ghost of a chuckle warmed Charles' scalp, and Erik's fingers squeezed stubbornly into his thigh. "Go on, Professor. Have yourself a wank, right here in my lap."

Charles remained motionless, brows lowered. His face felt hot. He was, for once, _too_ warm. Erik radiated heat: Erik's breath in his hair; his body at Charles' back, thudding faintly with his heartbeat and undulating with the bellows movement of his ribs; and finally, the surreal _furnace_ of said lap in question and Erik's shameless desire.

Charles felt almost feverish; cool air teased his forehead and he knew that he was sweating. Despite the book in his mouth—despite the fact that this was _business_ and an obviously perverse power play—he wanted nothing more than to melt down around Erik. He realized, suddenly, that he might not even have the _energy_ to have a wank on Erik's lap. His fingers felt weak and too sensitive, thrumming with awareness.

Erik's chest rumbled with a growl—not threatening; impatient and urging Charles to get on with it—and Charles made his own low noise into the confidence of Bradbury. His arm seemed stuck to his side, but he lifted it, rearranged his elbow, and… Took himself in hand, as Erik had wanted.

Erik—to whom he had given everything. Who now had blanket permission for _anything_. Who… Likely had a very active imagination. Charles focused on not biting down on the book as he tugged at his cock. The only sounds were their breathing and the chafing sound of flesh on flesh. Dry, of course—he didn't need lubricant on _himself_, after all.

It was not so unlike fantasizing in his bed, Charles decided—if perhaps his bed was an exceptionally enthusiastic cuddler. Erik was _wrapped_ around him, holding him close, holding the book in his mouth; rocking against him, just a little, as Charles let himself sink down around Erik's legs—because what did it matter, if Erik thought he enjoyed that pressure beneath him? What did it matter if he _did_?

Erik's hand touched his, and Charles faltered; the book hid his view. Erik didn't try to stop him, however; instead his hand continued down, and closed around Charles' balls. The telepath rolled his head back into Erik's shoulder as the other man experimented with a gentle, caressing squeeze of his fingers. It wasn't intense, it wasn't painful, but rather… Pleasant. _Nice_, even. Charles tightened his hold on himself while Erik massaged him, and let his eyes slip closed.

He could smell himself, he noticed; a musky, masculine odor unique from the cologne and strangely _pine_ smell of Erik, and Erik's own male scent. In almost the same moment, he heard Erik inhale deeply; felt the expansion of the other man's chest as he drew Charles into his lungs.

Erik bent his head down into the crook of Charles' neck, perhaps for a better view, and Charles didn't resist as _Fahrenheit 451_ urged him to bend back over Erik's shoulder. There was no part of him left apart from Erik; they were fitted together, a soft stone in the embrace of its setting, cradled but exposed.

Erik's hand slid deeper; Charles felt the brush of his fingertips just below his balls, and the palm of his hand against them. Then one long finger pressed against him and Charles nearly _inhaled_ the book as he gasped. His legs spread wider, which pulled his pants back up his thighs; the waistband caught Erik's hand and _drove_ his fingers into the sensitive skin between Charles' legs.

Charles bit into the book, moaned, and twitched his legs open further; rocked his knees to pull Erik's hand closer again until Erik took over, stroking his fingers against Charles' body to reach someplace deeper through the flesh. Charles lay atop him, eyes tightly closed, head tilted back with Erik's breath on his collar, and arched his back as if he could wind himself around Erik, back to front.

He opened his mouth so that he didn't ruin the book and, with a last inarticulate, muffled cry—came, spurting up and then back down onto his hand. Charles was vaguely conscious that some of it got onto his clothing, onto his briefs and pants and shirt, and might have been displeased except that he had gone blank, for the moment, and could only sink back down onto Erik and lie there, panting.

Erik's hand slipped out from between Charles' legs, and lifted up; Charles heard the sound of a tongue on skin. _Fahrenheit 451_ tugged at his lips and withdrew, allowing Charles to roll his head to the side, onto Erik's chest.

Slowly, Charles became aware of the erection straining against his bare arse, of Erik breathing heavy into his hair, and his heart—which had thought itself free to rest—stumbled back into frenzy. The gag had been removed, but Charles still couldn't speak; nor could he bring himself to move, although he could not have been spread any _more_ invitingly around Erik.

Both of Erik's hands settled down onto Charles' hips, fingertips tucking their way under his shirt and jacket. Erik inhaled, and Charles copied the action; he smelled his own come. He looked down and saw that he had, in fact, splattered quite a bit of it onto his trousers; his cock draped stickily over his fingers because Charles wasn't sure where else he could put his hand without making more of a mess.

Erik rested his face against Charles'; the edge of the helmet dug into his cheek and there was sex on Erik's breath. "I could—_have_ you," he murmured; Erik tightened his grasp on Charles' hips and ground up into him, long and slow.

Charles shivered, but remained where he was. He felt… _Relaxed_, now. He seemed to recall that it was less likely to—to _hurt_, if he was relaxed. And maybe it could even feel nice—although at that thought, he felt his relevant internal organs cringe; they had a much more pessimistic view of Erik's, well, _size_.

"You could," Charles offered, quietly. He moved his clean hand to cover one of Erik's, holding it there; the other he cupped over himself, since he still had nowhere else to put it and he was leaking, a little, as his blood returned to his body.

Erik hummed in consideration, and ground up against Charles once more—then stopped. He turned his head so that his lips and nose touched the telepath's cheek. "Do you want me to?" he asked.

"You may," Charles replied, focusing on controlling his breathing; on keeping it even. _Oh god_, he thought, _What did I agree to?_

"_Charles_," Erik growled, giving Charles' hips a sharp tug. "Do you _want_ me to?"

"No," Charles whispered, pressing his legs in against Erik's. "I… Don't."

Erik lifted his hands up; wrapped one arm around Charles and stroked the other hand into his hair. Erik kissed his cheek gently, and Charles let his eyes slip shut. He could still feel Erik insistent beneath him, but when Erik spoke it was to say, "Then I won't."

Charles waited; he waited for Erik to ask something else of him, to take his turn, but Erik didn't loosen his embrace and continued to smooth down that same lock of his hair, over and over again. Charles turned a little, and opened his eyes, meeting Erik's. He moistened his lips—Erik glanced down at his tongue—and inquired, "Do you want me to, ah… Return the favor?"

Erik smiled fondly and pulled him closer, kissing Charles' forehead this time. "No," he reassured Charles. "I'm content with your satisfaction. Just… Relax, here. I'll get you something to clean up with."

He gave Charles one last, comforting squeeze—and then lifted him up off his lap and back onto the couch so that he could get up and walk to the bathroom. Charles expected him to take his time, but Erik returned quickly; visibly less hard but still, if Charles was any judge of such things, unspent.

Once Charles had wiped himself down and scrubbed a little at his trousers, Erik still did not demand anything of him; he only took the rag away to add to Charles' laundry and, upon returning the second time, sat back down on the couch and patted the space next to himself.

Charles hesitated, looping his belt back through the buckle with absent-mindedly slow fingers. Then Erik's lips quirked into a smile and Charles shifted toward him warily. It was only when Erik's arm wrapped around him once more and Erik lifted up the book again—the same book that had earlier been in Charles' mouth; which had, to his chagrin, a damp spot and several dents halfway down its spine—that the geneticist realized: Erik did not resent him.

He'd been telling the truth. Charles now sat on the opposite side of the lamp from him, so that he saw Erik outlined in golden light; the blunt tip of his nose, the sweep of his eyelashes, the curl of his mouth—all soft, compared to the sharp points of the helmet. He was… Content.

_And why not_, Charles mused, too tired to feel more than a thorn of panic. _If things go badly at work, at least he can make _me_ happy, more or less._ That was one way to relieve stress, certainly—and Charles felt ill-inclined to question it, for the moment. Another time, perhaps.

After all, he'd promised Erik _forever_.

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	26. Chapter 26

Ah! I'm sorry this took so long. D: Mostly it's just that I'm terrible at politics and so that all took me a very long time to write, but also? There are scenes coming up that I'm very excited about, and who wants to be writing an interlude when you could be writing the end? ;) Not, mind you, that the next chapter is the end... But very soon! And unlike every other time I've said "soon", this time I mean it! *flails*

With thanks to my betas, Idioticonion and KaeKae, and my eternal cheerleader, theredoormouse.

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**xcv.**

The next morning Charles was in the middle of tugging on his shoes when he heard the scrape of his door unlocking. Bent down over his own knees and with fingers trapped between leather and sock, he craned his head up awkwardly to see a young man step into the foyer. He wore a pristine white lab coat.

"Hello," Charles offered, looking the fellow over. He was very young indeed, it seemed; beneath the wrinkled greenish skin and through the self-conscious disguise of the coat Charles detected the uneasy swagger of an adolescent soldier. It was a posture sadly not unfamiliar—after all, there were not so many mutants in the world that the Brotherhood could afford to be choosy.

This young man, however, did not have that same wild danger glinting in his eyes; rather, by the hunch of his shoulders, he appeared to be one of those quiet recruits who'd learned to kill and then kindly removed themselves from the company of others. Charles couldn't know for certain, however; though he wore no helmet, the young man's thoughts were just as inscrutable to him.

"Dorian, sir," he mumbled, and scooped the air with his hand, beckoning for Charles to follow.

Charles popped his heel down into his shoe and straightened. "Are you to be my guard today, Dorian?" he asked, not unkindly. After all, there was no call to be rude, even if the circumstances of their meeting left something to be desired.

Dorian ducked his head in a nod and turned back to the door, clearly taking Charles' question as a sign that he was ready to leave.

Charles arched his eyebrow at Dorian's back. Well, if Erik really was more concerned about Charles' conversational skills than his telepathy… It would appear that he'd found a solution.

With a mental shrug, Charles followed him through the door. He caught his own lab coat from the coat tree along the way and dropped it into his lap, and when he passed the steel door and armed guard he ignored the prickling of hair under his sleeves.

When they were further down the hallway Charles could not resist twisting around in his chair to see whether the guard had gone, now that Charles had left—but no; he stood there still, keeping watch over the empty room.

It was not until they passed more people in the hallway that Charles began to notice something… _Strange_.

He frowned, and tipped his head to the side as if maybe he needed to drain water out of his brain through his ears. That's what it felt like, certainly; he could _see_ those people well enough, could see that they weren't wearing helmets, and yet… _And yet_, Charles could only catch the muffled edges of their thoughts, elusive like the barest wisps of cotton. It was nearly enough to make his _eyes_ sting.

_What's _wrong_ with me_? Charles wondered, rubbing the back of his hand over his temple; beginning, almost, to panic. He didn't feel any different otherwise—and he knew that, since the war, research into power-dampening drugs had been absolutely forbidden—but…

His gaze flicked up to Dorian. _Of course_. Erik had given him a guard who could both keep Charles safe _and_ protect others from Charles himself. _Fascinating_… If rather unpleasant. Better, perhaps, than being muzzled with one of those accursed helmets.

Charles relegated that to the back of his mind, along with certain _other_ unnamed realities.

And he was fine; really, he was fine. Even when they arrived at the lab and saw no sign of Beast; even when Charles entered his work room and saw that he would be testing alone from now on. For indeed, he had heard nothing of Hannah, even through his discrete probing of Beth's memory. He was fairly sure that she had not been captured, and he'd tried to obscure their trail well enough that she could not be found; so that maybe she _could_ stay. He had not expected to see her in the lab—but he had… Hoped.

Still; he said nothing as he moved about the room, tidying up the mess the Brotherhood had left when they'd searched it. Reagents out of place, bottles of stock left out on the counter, a liter flask cracked and all of the previously sterile equipment now suspect… Just as well that Hannah had gone, really. She would have pitched a fit.

Charles held up a tin half-full with slender glass pipette tubes; a few of them had been carelessly tipped out onto the counter and lay in pieces, their micrometers scattered out of order. Someone had clearly opened the tin and turned it over to check for anything suspicious; Charles wanted to believe that they had worn gloves and that the box was still sterile, but… He would have to send them back into the autoclave, just to be sure.

It was a shame; glassware was expensive in the new world, and only well-trained glassblowers could replace broken equipment. In fact, not long before Charles had been moved to the Brotherhood's headquarters he had overheard a glowingly smug television report about how Magneto's people had effectively, efficiently crippled the renegade human scientists at the University of Wisconsin—simply by murdering their glassblower and destroying his ovens.

Charles slid the square metal cap back over the tin and looked around for a place to set it—but then put the box back down on the counter next to the shards of broken pipettes. He might as well save himself the trip and get a cart, since he'd probably decide to autoclave half the room by the time he was through.

He turned and saw Dorian leaning on the doorframe, hunched down and staring out into the main part of the lab. With a weary sigh Charles asked, "You're supposed to be posing as an assistant, aren't you?"

Dorian glanced back to Charles, eyebrows raised in startled inquiry.

"You'll give yourself away if you just stand there. At least come in and have a seat, or bring a cart if you want to help," Charles suggested, voice becoming slightly muffled as he bent down to retrieve a pan and brush from beside the glass disposal bin.

When Charles sat up again he found that Dorian had vanished. Whether he had actually gone to get the cart or if Charles had inadvertently offended him into leaving, he didn't know—but he still couldn't hear anyone's thoughts, so Dorian must not have gone far.

He stared at the broken glass without making any movement to sweep it up. The lab was strangely quiet without the background hum of mental calculations and self-narrated notes. He could still hear the hum of the centrifuge out in the main room; the clatter of a magnetic stirring rod whirling around on the bottom of a flask; the scrape of chairs on tile… But little else. It was like working in a laboratory run by the whispers of ghosts.

Charles heard the squeaking wheels of a cart and jumped to brush the glass shards into his pan. Dorian re-entered the room just as Charles tipped them out into the bin, and the telepath smiled brightly over at his guard. "Ah, thank you, Dorian; that's just what I needed."

The corner of Dorian's mouth edged up, and he turned his head away as the creases in his green skin furrowed deeper.

In the end Charles did not, in fact, do any experimental work. He plated new bacteria from the liquid cultures that hadn't yet died, set new culture tubes to incubate in the shaker, and forgot his old test tubes to circle round together with Hannah's. He re-organized, calling upon Dorian's height to reach the bottles on the top shelf and replace them somewhere easier for Charles to reach. He moved the extra equipment back into the main part of the lab.

He didn't know what the other scientists thought, or if they even knew anything had changed. They must, of course—after all, the Brotherhood had intruded into their shared domain to overturn their work; it could not have been subtle, and Charles knew at least that it was not an especially _common_ occurrence, though that risk was a part of the sacrifice involved in working for the world's only non-weaponized biology lab.

Without his telepathy, however, Charles couldn't know what lay behind the silence. Did they know that he had been involved, and what had happened? Did _anyone_, for that matter, beyond Erik and the few people in Erik's trust? Surely the other biologists must have been resentful for the reminder of their subservience; even the Brotherhood's supporters would not have appreciated the interruption.

Did they blame him? Did they pity him? Or was this merely the benign apathy of the preoccupied scientist, left unexcused now that he could not feel their attention elsewhere?

Charles led Dorian to the autoclave to retrieve the hot glassware, and wondered.

.

.

.

**xcvi.**

Badger, on the other hand—she had gotten her helmet back, or perhaps had it replaced, but Charles had no difficulty reading _her_ emotions.

"Oh, you absolute _idiot_!" she snarled, and threw herself at him. Charles held up one hand in defense and grabbed for a wheel with the other; then Badger's arms wrapped around his shoulders, the chair jolted back from force of impact, and Charles _endured_, breathless with shock and the crush of her embrace.

In an instant Badger had gone again, pacing away to a safe distance from which to berate him. She _tsked_. "Look at you. Look at your face! Fuck, if they weren't dead already, and if Magneto hadn't already made his point…" She pressed her lips together and shook her fist in front of her. She wasn't tall, but her sleeve pulled menacingly taut over the muscles of her arm.

Charles frowned—had Erik gone through with his morbid intentions after all? His immediate concern, however, was: "You know about what happened?"

"Of course! You know my rank. Outside of the inner circle it's all pretty hush but I don't think there's _anyone_ who doesn't know that _something_ happened," Badger said, calmly enough; then she narrowed her eyes again and snapped, "And you know what—you _need_ a keeper. You should have someone with you at all times in case you have to tie your shoes! What kind of genius are you supposed to be, anyway? Okay, I'll accept that you _forgot_ my helmet and left it sitting out for anyone to just walk by and take it—we all make mistakes; that was an especially stupid one, mind you, and very nearly got me into some hot water—still perfectly normal—but how could you not have seen this coming? You've had free access to those assholes' brains for _weeks_, and you never thought maybe, just maybe, you should be _concerned_ and perhaps not just _wander_ around in the middle of the night?"

Charles leaned his head back, blinking in bewilderment—but if he took a moment to respond, it was because of one thing Badger _hadn't_ chastised him for. If he understood her title correctly, then—disgraced or not—as a Major General, she shared a rank below that Zeus had occupied, who in turn ranked below the Brotherhood's leader himself. Furthermore, she knew Charles personally, and he suspected that she'd been tasked with his care beyond just regaining the use of his legs. There couldn't have been too many people _more_ likely to know that Charles had been engaged in subversive activities that night, and yet… She clearly _didn't_.

Which implied that Erik wanted as few people as possible to know about Charles' disloyalty. Another thing to think about, when he had a moment…

"Is there any use in defending myself?" Charles asked, arching an eyebrow warily.

"None at all. I've already written you off as a lost cause. I'll give you a charitable eulogy at your inevitably early funeral, though, because I do kind of like you despite your numerous and severe impairments of judgment," Badger told him, and crossed her arms to lean back against a padded table. "Now, tell me—have you been practicing with the crutches?"

Charles thought back, trying to remember what he'd been doing for the past few days that didn't involve being abducted or having sex with Erik. It was an admittedly challenging task. "Not… Really?" he guessed.

Badger rolled her eyes. "You know what, I take back all the nice things I said about your funeral. _Really_, Charles? Come on, I thought you _wanted_ to walk again some day. Sure, it's tough, whatever—but if you don't get off your ass _now_, you're going to have a much harder time of it later."

"I'm sorry," Charles said. "I've just been…" He saw her raised brows, and sighed in defeat. "All right, yes, I've been avoiding it. It's inconvenient and painful and, I'll admit: I don't like it."

Uncrossing her arms to set her hands flat on the table behind her, Badger replied, "I'm sure. You're proud, and even if everything doesn't always come easily for you, you try to make it _look_ like it does. That's not going to work this time. You're going to be tired, and you're going to look stupid—but at least you get to do it in private. So get it out of the way quickly and _move on_."

Charles made a noncommittal noise that sounded vaguely like it might, conceivably, have been agreement.

"_Charles_," Badger warned.

"All right," Charles said, holding up his hands to indicate his surrender. "I'll try to do better. I promise. Will that make you happy?"

Badger's answer was made clear enough from her incredulous grunt, but she went on to recommend, "Ask me again once you've actually done it."

.

.

.

**xcvii.**

Badger walked Charles to the door—or rather, led him there; Charles was once again resigned to his chair. He'd draped his lab coat draped over his knees, but now they shook with the weight of the garment, too exhausted even for that small burden. He pulled the coat higher, onto his thighs, and breathed a sigh of relief, but he wasn't sure how he was supposed to get any _more_ practice walking when less than a half hour of it left his legs so drained and weak.

Badger held the door open to let Charles through first, and Dorian peeled away from the wall outside to take up position next to him—then he saw Badger and stiffened up from his stoop. Charles frowned at him until he realized again: beneath the casual clothing, neither of them were really what they seemed.

He half-expected Badger to chastise Dorian for the ridiculous formality of a lab assistant standing at attention for a physical therapist, but she barely glanced at the young soldier before telling Charles, "One word: _crutches_. Use them." Then she sauntered back into her domain and the door swung closed behind her.

Charles pulled a face at Dorian, but the boy stared back at him uncomprehendingly until Charles remembered that most of the people he took for granted as being part of his life were internationally-known members of the ruling class. Feeling a little embarrassed at himself, Charles ducked his chin down as he started back to his rooms.

Once there, Dorian didn't go in with him; instead, Charles received a low, two-fingered wave as his escort halted beyond the threshold.

Charles nodded, and waited until the door shut and locked before, with a reach and a toss, he hooked his lab coat up onto the coat tree. Then, because the light outside leaned narrow, he went to the lamp and switched it on.

He sat with his hands folded together until Erik came to retrieve him. It didn't take long.

The first he knew of it was when the collar _thrummed_ against his throat. A warm purr of metal caressed the points of his clavicles and Charles exhaled, slowly, tightening his hands around each other as his body echoed that hum in the pit of his stomach, rousing with interest. _Like a dog hearing its master's return_, he thought. It was an appealingly fatalistic comparison; after all, a dog could wag its tail just as easily for a cruel owner as a kind. Then again, some men could be much nicer to their dogs than to their neighbors…

The door swung open, and the long black toe of a boot followed. Charles' eyes followed the sweep of trouser seam upward, past the bend of a knee to a dangling curl of fingers—black in their gloves, seen in silhouette only, their tips brushing the subtle curve of a thigh.

Chest tight, Charles tore his eyes up to Erik's face before they could wander further; the Brotherhood's leader studied him from under the sharp angle of his eyebrows, eyes darkly shadowed between the points of the helmet. _Dog_, Charles accused his body, but nonetheless tilted his head back as Erik approached, accepting the soft press of his lips and the scrape of stubbled chin as Erik bent to kiss him in greeting.

Erik's hand caressed his cheek as he pulled away, and Charles did not return his fond smile. "Ready, Charles?" he asked.

Charles held his gaze for a moment, then blinked and turned his face into Erik's palm. His heart rattled as he kissed against the glove and he felt suddenly self-conscious, even though Erik had recently seen him do worse. "As I'll ever be," he mumbled in reply.

Erik's lips curled up further, and his hand slid from Charles' mouth with a passing stroke of his fingertips along the curve of Charles' lips. He straightened and, still smiling, stepped back. He tilted his body toward the door. "Then come."

Charles nodded once and lowered his hands to the rims of his wheels; glad, for once, of Erik's propensity for ridiculous capes. He didn't want to know where his eyes would go if he could see Erik's back unobstructed.

It turned out to be a moot point anyway, because Erik waited for him in the hall and, rather than taking the lead, fell into step beside him. Charles snuck a glance up at Erik and saw the barest curve of Erik's pupils as he looked back at Charles, who turned his head quickly away again.

The expression on Erik's face had looked almost like pride, which made no sense at all.

.

.

.

**xcviii.**

The meeting was surprisingly quiet. Nobody advocated for any immediate bombings, and no one then protested the prohibitive expense. Instead, after Erik called for silence the council _stayed_ silent, all of them looking back and forth amongst each other before even that became too much, and Charles watched as eyes fell one after the other to the table. A few mutants occupied themselves with pushing their folders around, although not so intently that it appeared they might have something to contribute.

Charles had expected that his abductors' usual seats would be empty, but it appeared that everyone who could had instead used the opportunity to move down the table one chair; away from Erik and, subsequently, Charles, who suddenly felt very obvious by Erik's side. He found that _his_ eyes, too, sought the relief of smooth wood finish. There they roamed, before catching on the charred pit where Erik had once redirected lightening.

Erik tapped his fingers on the table, twice, before speaking—softly, but pitched so that everyone could hear. "Every day that we've met at this table, and every time before that, when we had no table—we were at the start of something new. That's never been more true than today. Give me your best."

He stared around at his officers, who met his eyes and quickly looked away to shuffle their papers more purposefully. Some slouched; some sat straighter in their chairs.

"First thing's first," began Infrared, "While I'm sure it's satisfying to leave the positions open, we really ought to replace our Secretary of State and Lieutenant General."

They scarcely had the time to look around at each other in bewilderment before a young man Charles didn't recognize cleared his throat in introduction. He was big—extraordinarily tall and muscular, with buzzed black hair, and Charles would have thought him to be military except for the warmth of _calm_ shrouding his mind, barely touched by the deeper thrum of nervousness.

Charles looked more closely around the table, surprised to see a quite a number of faces which he did not, on closer inspection, remember at all; likewise, a similar number of minor officials and ministers were absent. He could feel their wariness now that he searched for it; Zeus and Skink, apparently, were not the _only_ Brotherhood authorities to lose their places, although only one of these replacements occupied a dead man's seat.

"I have all the reports from Skink's staff on hand," this new man said, propping a thick file up in front of him to straighten against the table. "I can fulfill his duties."

Erik arched an eyebrow, fingers falling flat on the table. "And who are _you_?" He wasn't the only one wondering; throughout the room, Charles could sense the others trying to recall: had they been warned about this young man? His stoicism, they suspected, could just as easily be callousness as serenity.

"Piotr Rasputin, Undersecretary of Labor, sir." The Undersecretary glanced away, shifted his thumbs over the manila folder, and looked back, keeping his eyes on the clasp of Erik's cape. "Or… Colossus."

Erik nodded, slowly, singly. "Colossus… What makes you think that I'll let you do that?"

Colossus blinked once, but didn't rise to the barb. "Convenience, sir. I'm qualified, I'm familiar with the job, and I'm sitting at this table."

Erik's fingers resumed their tapping, deliberate and in sequence, all in a wave from small to large. He pursed his lips. Further down, the man sitting next to Infrared leaned over and whispered, "Can he actually do that? Just show up and get the job?" She shrugged in reply; it was, after all, a good question; one that they were not alone in asking.

After all—though the Brotherhood was essentially a meritocratic dictatorship, it was in many ways merely an occupying military enforcing its rules on a rebellious anarchy. A few years prior, it hadn't even been that; government had come only after the soldiers, and field promotions were still far more common than appointments.

"Do we… Vote?" the Minister of Agriculture asked, and then covered his mouth with short fingers, eyes flicking from side to side as his colleagues looked at him and then glanced away, unable to hold their interest in the man.

"_Have_ we ever voted on anything?" another mutant directed at Infrared, as if she'd been the one who'd posed the question in the first place.

"Not…" Infrared began, with a flicker of her eyes to look at Erik, "…For a very long time."

"In the Old United States government…" an older gentlemen—one of those few mutants from the earlier generation—offered, voice wavering with uncertainty, "The Secretary of the Treasury would replace the Secretary of State."

"But we are _not_ the American government," Erik growled, leaning forward just a little. His hand wrapped into a gradual fist on the table, and his tendons pulled tight under the hem of his sleeve. "The American government is _destroyed_. The Brotherhood is new. We are trying to be _better_."

Charles reached over—it wasn't far—and brushed his fingers against Erik's elbow. The Brotherhood's leader snapped around to glare warning at Charles, who lifted the corner of his mouth in a wry, gentle smile. He drew breath to speak, paused, and then began again: "…Magneto. The old governments persisted for as long as they did for good reason. It's perfectly acceptable to borrow."

Erik's eyebrows furrowed low over his eyes as he held Charles' gaze. His cheeks shifted with the grind of his teeth. Then, with a short, jerking nod, he turned back to the table, lifting his elbow away from Charles' fingers and up onto the wood. "The Minister of Finance," Erik pronounced carefully, "is more useful to me where he is. Traditionally—if we wish to stick to tradition—these titles are mine to give and take, but… You will vote, when I make my decision. Your choices will not be held against you."

The others were silent, waiting, until Colossus inquired, "Your decision, sir?"

Erik inclined his head toward Charles, watching the telepath until he sighed, lifted his fingers to his temple—more for Colossus' benefit than real necessity—and brushed against the Undersecretary's mind, waiting for an invitation. Colossus didn't react outwardly, but inside he cringed away in surprise; apprehension crusted around the exploratory tendril of Charles' mind like a cyst. He knew Charles—knew _of_ Charles—and _wanted_ to trust him, but…

Charles met his cool gray eyes, mirroring the calm there. _I won't look if you tell me not to,_ he said, along with a flash of—_know what this means to you—know what happens if you don't_. He didn't _push_, but after a moment the crystals of distrust broke off and dissolved back into Colossus' general wariness, along with a cautious—hope? Yes, _hope_, because this man was _good_, and had held his tongue through the past few years of Brotherhood rule just to be _here_; not to overthrow but to help. To that end, he'd studied Skink's duties and more.

Charles withdrew from Colossus' mind and turned to Erik. "He can do the job," Charles said, "and he's trustworthy."

Erik frowned in consideration, eyes glinting with silent thought as he peered over at the young Undersecretary. He pressed his lips together, nodded to himself, and then made a dismissive gesture with his hand as he looked back down at the stack of red folders in front of him. "The responsibilities are yours. The title will be contingent on how well you fulfill them."

Erik drew out one folder from the stack and laid it on top, caught the cover against his glove and flipped it open to study the contents; craning his neck to see, Charles saw that it was a very short collection of bolded names— every one preceded by the words "Major General"—and when he squinted he saw that they were accompanied by an overview of their decorations and experience. Badger's name—her real name—wasn't on the list, and it seemed to only be the one page. After all, there weren't many of them: only five, at most, that Charles could think of.

"Florida," Erik murmured, "Henan, the Alps… My best men are involved in our most important engagements." He remained immobile, except for the flicker of his eyes and the slow rise and fall of his chest. The rest of the council, too, stayed still; watching him and waiting.

Charles glanced over at the others, then back to Erik. He drummed his fingers on his armrest, and then squeezed them around the stuffed vinyl padding. "If it's all a matter of capability and convenience," Charles began, "then there _is_ someone of suitable rank in this building, who is otherwise unoccupied."

Infrared frowned at him. "Are you talking about Major General Horton?"

"Badger, yes," Charles confirmed.

"But…" Infrared hesitated, looking between them: from Charles to Erik, Erik to Charles. He felt the decision stuck in her mind: if she addressed Charles, she might offend Erik; but if she protested to Erik she ran the risk of offending them _both_, potentially.

She chewed her bottom lip, and finally turned her head toward Charles. "…_Professor_. Badger is assigned to custodial and clinic duties for a reason. While her title is the same, her rank is not."

"I know what she did," Charles argued, then stopped to glance at Erik—but Erik wasn't looked at him; he was watching Infrared with his fingers rubbing absently along his jaw. Charles just about lost his train of thought at that, and what was supposed to be a glance almost became a stare until he wrenched his eyes away to continue his rebuttal. "…I've read her mind. She's loyal, and she has principles; two qualities your last Lieutenant General lacked. To you, she's a known quantity; to the resistance, her disappearance after Chicago makes her a compelling mystery. She's your best option."

"We've had her vetted for loyalty several times since then," Infrared admitted. "But she _has_ disobeyed Brotherhood orders in the past. What kind of message would it send if we put her in charge of overseeing our military?"

"That you're honest about the change you're promising," Charles told her. "That you're not just giving lip service to the idea. I agree that Badger would be a strange choice… And that's why you should do it."

"For all Zeus' faults, he was still good at his job," Infrared said, slowly. She shifted her gaze over Erik, and Charles followed suit.

Erik looked at them both, leaning his chin into his hand. His middle and index fingers were stretched out to catch their tips on the lower edge of the helmet. "As was Badger," he pointed out to Infrared, and then met Charles' eyes. "Would the anti-extinctionists see her as a hero for what she did?"

"No," Charles said. His pulse quickened as he prepared to argue his case. "She's still responsible for a lot of deaths. Because she refused to fight dirty, though, and was subsequently pulled from active duty… She would certainly be the most sympathetic of your choices. Besides," he arched an eyebrow, "This means you don't have to stop killing the resistance in other parts of the world."

"Trust me, Professor, there's very little killing going on there either," Erik grumbled, and straightened up. "Very well, then. Send Major General Horton instructions to cease all of her custodial duties as soon as this meeting's over. She should be in her new office by eight tomorrow morning." He said all of this to a young girl standing by the door; she nodded, the white streak in her hair bobbing with her chin, and remained where she was.

Erik turned back to his council, and Charles let himself breathe again and look more closely at what it was that bothered him—because something _did_. It seemed too easy; it seemed far too easy. And yet… Here he was, successful, and nobody had made any protest; not even a token debate.

Charles looked down the table at the other mutants, noticing again that he was essentially alone with Erik. His hard-earned breath caught—Charles was sitting next to Erik at the _head of the table_. He was sitting with Erik, and when Charles had spoken, Erik hadn't watched him; hadn't given his approval and hadn't appeared to _care_ what Charles said. The collar was hidden invisible under his shirt. It would look—to the others, it would look—

It would look as if Charles ruled alongside Magneto.

_Calm_, Charles told himself, inhaling slowly. He held the air in his lungs; then exhaled even more slowly. _It hardly matters. It doesn't matter what they think of you. The truth is the truth. This is… More convenient, is all. For the time being._ He allowed himself a small, bitter smile. _After all, it might mean less resistance if you _do_ ever manage that coup_. As if _that_ weren't such an impossibility at the moment…

Charles was vaguely aware of Colossus speaking. His voice was deep and level. Soothingly rational. "…If we truly are going to be cutting back on military expenditures—and we should, for reasons that will become clear—then we should direct more effort into reinforcing existing infrastructure. In any given place on this planet, based on partial data and informal reports, Brotherhood citizens are far more likely to die from infection, illness, starvation, and accidental injury than any violent causes."

"Speaking on the Lieutenant General's behalf, I suspect that might change if we re-allocated our funding," Infrared commented.

"It will certainly have to be a consideration, yes, and I'd like to initiate some formal investigation into that, but if we can focus on defending and reinforcing our existing occupations, then we should do that," Colossus explained.

"You're in a hurry," Erik remarked, one eyebrow twitching up.

"I may not have much time, sir," Colossus replied, grave. "And this is important. People fight when they feel threatened. Safety—even relative safety—inspires happiness, and a happy civilian is a cooperative citizen."

"That's a bit twee," the Director of Mutant Affairs observed, smoothing down one side of his mustache with his thumb.

"Is it?" Colossus inquired blandly. "What would you think about your government if you were worried about where you'd find your next meal? What would you think if every new bucket of water might be the one that made you too sick to defend yourself from looters? How would you feel, after all that, when someone shows up to demand a contribution of food for the local militia?"

It was impressive, Charles thought, to see someone who still had so much hope; but of course, Erik's response—for all of its patience—took the thin bubble of optimism that had been cautiously rising around them and ruthlessly popped it. "And how do you plan on accomplishing this?"

"It's a goal," Colossus admitted, "Nothing more. The likelihood of this succeeding is slim, and it could go drastically wrong."

"Then what, exactly, was the point of all that?" the Minister of Finance exclaimed in disgust, leaning back in his chair. "Good intentions never got anything done."

"They're more effective than inaction," Colossus retorted.

Charles moistened his lips—_now or never_—and decided to give his own opinion. "Think of it this way: you've been at war for the past four years. You've had martial law and you've had that Breen fellow on every frequency you could broadcast, telling people how great everything would be if only they stopped fighting."

He turned to look at Erik, and met his eyes to say, "Your citizens won't stop fighting you until they feel like citizens. Think of this less as… Admitting defeat, and more as the next stage in your operation. You need to…" Charles cringed internally; _I can't believe I'm saying this_— "Conquer their hearts, now that you've conquered their cities."

Erik steepled his eyebrows and tipped down his chin. His expression was one of awed disbelief; clearly, he was as surprised that Charles had said that as Charles himself. Regardless, his tone betrayed none of that as he replied, "This isn't anything I haven't considered before, Charles. My concern is that my people might not be safe if I choose to change tactics today."

Charles shrugged in a forcibly nonchalant sort of way. _'My people,'_ his mind repeated. _My god. I'm talking to the dictator in charge of the planet._ Funny how one forgot such things when that dictator was also the person one had sex with… "I suspect there will never be a time when it's not a gamble," Charles reasoned. "If you take too long, of course, your 'people' might lose patience with you."

"Of course," Erik echoed, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. "But these are all things that have to be researched." He looked back at his council to make those arrangements, and Charles continued to watch him; he didn't worry that he was being covert because, after all, everyone _else_ was watching Erik as well—but none, perhaps, as intently as he did.

It was all so strange, and so frustrating; every time that Charles though he'd come close to decoding the creases of Erik's eyelids, the curve of his mouth, the flare of his nostrils—_every time_, Erik did something to add a new variable to the equation. Like this, whatever _this_ was; yesterday Erik had gnawed his shoulder black and blue in retaliation to a simple question, and now Erik was treating him like… Like an _equal_, almost.

Charles narrowed his eyes in thought. He hadn't spoken much to Erik since the night before, and their… _Agreement_, but… Things between them seemed different, now. Calm, almost; as if Erik really had taken Charles' promise seriously, and believed him. As if Erik, in all of his apparent madness, had chosen to live in a world where Charles really did love and support him and Erik really was a partner rather than a jailor.

It was… _Sad_, in a way, Charles felt. He could understand the appeal; at the moment they were all listening to the Minister of Scientific Research—a PI from the geology lab, if Charles recalled correctly—who was relaying new findings suggesting that the volcanism in South America and the Atlantic, if left unchecked, could continue for as long as _thirty thousand_ years. Over the past few years the impact of the Argentinean Traps alone had been extraordinarily catastrophic; the thought that they might _never stop_ erupting within any of their lifetimes—even those of the mutants who otherwise appeared immortal—was simply…

Well. Certainly, Charles didn't want to think about what might happen to the planet if they couldn't figure out a way to undo what was supposed to have been a temporary catastrophe. The winters were already colder; new, finer instruments suggested that the very air might be shaving years off their lives even in North America; and now…

"We're receiving reports that the pH of rain in Europe has dropped another point four units since the last measurement, two weeks ago," the geologist stated, without looking at the papers before him, "down to 4.02. Major rivers in Western Europe are averaging around 5.12. We feel certain that this is from sulfur dioxide released since the Mid-Atlantic Event. Preliminary research suggests that most fish eggs won't hatch below pH five, and increased solute concentrations from adding basic salts to streams in order to raise the pH to potable standards will likely also have an adverse effect, even if it were possible on such a large scale…"

Charles didn't know much about Erik's life where it didn't involve him, personally, but he couldn't imagine that Erik was particularly close to anyone else. Charles certainly couldn't imagine Erik confiding in any of his subordinates; after all, he'd made himself into _Magneto_, and Magneto did not have doubts or fears. Magneto didn't love anyone, or allow himself to be consoled. Instead, he'd chosen to come to Charles—to _steal_ from Charles—all those things that Charles might… Perhaps… If asked nicely…

_But he didn't_, Charles reminded himself. Erik hadn't asked; hadn't allowed Charles to make his own decision, and that… That would never change, and it would always be there between them, even if Erik chose to ignore it. It just wouldn't do, to waste time dwelling on the impossible.

They moved from discussing the promise of using limestone to neutralize acidic waters in retention ponds on to planning for Erik's speech to promote Legacy.

"We've cleaned up the ruins of Victoria but otherwise left them intact," the mutant from Public Relations announced to the room. "Aside from necessary time constraints, we think that it will make a more impressive backdrop than open construction. We've recovered the ferries and some of the larger boats left in the harbor. Sound and film setup should be finished within a day; interior reconstruction of the Parliament Building is in progress and should be acceptable for your presence by the time you arrive. If you have any second thoughts about the city or speech's location… Now would be the time to express them, sir. We do have acceptable locations ready here on the East Coast…"

"No," Erik replied, with a brief shake of his head. "Victoria is our best option. The northern West Coast has been the least affected by global conditions and their winters remain warm. It's not associated with American power, and it's isolated. Most importantly, it's defensible; all the more so once construction is complete."

"Very well. Our survey teams have chosen a number of quarrying and logging sites nearby, and have prepared an evaluation…"

For all that Charles didn't belong in that room, sitting with those people—for all that no amount of acceptance made it right—it was difficult not to imagine that maybe the Brotherhood _could_ be something more. After the meeting, when several of the council members approached Charles—including Colossus and the Minister of Agriculture—it was difficult to remind himself that they didn't seek his advice because he'd offered it.

So when Erik's hand came to rest on his shoulder and he stooped down to murmur, "Come with me, Charles," the geneticist only hesitated long enough to apologize for his obligation before backing away to follow Erik out the door.

In the corridor Erik waited for him again, so that they could walk back side by side with each other. Between them, acid rain fell and cities burned in defiance of whatever goals they still shared, and they could not stand to look directly at the possibility of finally, at long last, achieving them.

Charles said nothing when the chain around his neck broke and trickled down his chest, clinging tight to skin and winding serpentine over his ribs. He shivered and stopped himself from clenching his hands over the wheels, but the metal was warm where it had been pressed against his skin all day and the day before. It was a caress, its intent clear and unmistakable—though Erik made no sign of realizing it, except for the twitch of his fingers by his hip, sending the links winding over Charles' stomach beneath his shirt, smooth and individual like scales.

He expected—and dreaded—that the chain would dip down under his trousers and slither between his legs, but Erik apparently did not feel quite like torturing him to that extent. The necklace stayed about his belt, and Charles tried not to think too hard about that twinge of disappointment aching in the curved bones of his pelvis.

It must take a great deal of control, he mused, to keep the chain moving with them at a constant speed—or was it natural, like breathing? Certainly Erik _saw_ through the metal, in some way Charles had glimpsed but still did not quite understand, like the familiar scent of a loved one: utterly forgettable when absent but inexorably recognizable when present. It was not really sight, not really smell or taste or touch—but something else, some _other_ way that Erik knew the shape of him, just as Charles had once known the feel of his mind in a way Erik had never gotten close to imagining correctly.

They reached Charles' rooms, and if the guard noticed the flush of Charles' skin he gave no indication, only stepped back respectfully as Erik opened the door with the weight of his gaze. He gestured with a formal sweep of his arm for Charles to enter first. The cape hung redly off his bicep, and as he passed Charles remembered again what that heavy drape of fabric smelled of.

Charles turned around in the center of his sitting room and waited patiently for Erik to hang the cape up, to come to him, and to kiss him. He closed his eyes when Erik's nose touched his, and when their lips pressed together he felt the collar complete itself again around his throat. Erik's hands slid up onto his shoulders and pushed him back into the chair, and his tongue teased Charles' bottom lip until Charles reached up to bundle his hands in Erik's jacket and pull him down.

Erik's hands darted down to catch himself on the chair's armrests; Charles felt the curl of his smile as he opened his mouth to Charles' tongue. He tasted clean, like he hadn't eaten in a long time; his teeth were smooth, and held carefully apart as if he was afraid that Charles might withdraw if he moved—so Charles growled and pressed closer until Erik moaned and bit into his mouth, nose smashed against Charles'.

Eventually Charles released him, and Erik drew back far enough to look into Charles' eyes. He was breathing through his mouth and Charles saw, when he glanced down, that the insides of Erik's lips were softly red. Then, as if Erik had seen the thought in Charles' mind, he sank down, slowly, to kneel at Charles' feet.

Watching him, their gazes still locked together, Charles hardly dared to breathe. There—in Erik's eyes, too, he saw something like a bewildered vulnerability, an uncertainly that hid behind resolve when Erik blinked to turn his attention to Charles' feet. He lifted them each in turn from their footrests, set the shined tips of Charles' shoes down onto the wooden floor, and waved the footrests back to make room for himself between Charles' knees.

Tentatively, but all the same with a graceful stretch of his fingers, Erik set his hands on the tops of Charles' thighs to steady himself as be bent down to nuzzle against Charles' belt buckle. He opened his mouth against the trouser placket and exhaled, warm against the curve of Charles' mostly-hard cock, then tilted his head back to meet Charles' eyes again, in inquiry. And if Charles had never before seen anything so ridiculous as the ruler of the world kneeling before him, ready, apparently, to suck him off—he could not find it in him to laugh.

Wordlessly, Charles nodded—but it was barely a twitch of his chin so he nodded again, more certainly this time.

Erik's eyebrows lifted up in the center; the shadows of his cheeks flickered as he swallowed. He looked down again and focused on undoing the belt buckle, large hands fumbling a little with the leather. Charles tightened his grip around the armrests, and pushed himself up when Erik tugged at his waistband until pants and trousers pooled together around Charles' ankles and Erik's breath fluttered between his legs.

Erik wrapped a hand around the base of Charles' cock to prop it upright, then bent his neck down until the pink, moist curve of the head nudged against his mouth. There he paused, and sought Charles' eyes again—but Charles couldn't help but stare at where the flesh of Erik's bottom lip bowed down against him, exposing a glimpse of teeth. Certainly, he had no attention to spare for puzzling out Erik's silences.

Charles bit his own lip as if Erik could feel it and pressed his toes into the floor, pushing himself up a little. Obligingly, Erik tilted his face forward and closed his mouth around him. The tip of a hidden tongue flicked up and _stroked_, and Charles squeezed the thin stuffing of the armrests and gritted his teeth together, because—_fuck_, that sudden _warmth_ after cool air—

Furthermore, this was _Erik_, and… Well, Charles hadn't previously imagined what the sight of the back of his head—well, helmet—might do to him and… It had an effect, to say the least, to watch Erik bobbing over him, shoulders rocking to take the responsibility from his neck, rough jacket nudging in against Charles' knees.

Those long, supple fingers had gained some confidence, wrapped tightly around the shaft where Erik's mouth couldn't reach, though he'd made a valiant—and quickly abortive—effort. It didn't feel any less _good_, by any means; one of Charles previous girlfriends—well, multi-night stands—had been able to take him down her throat and had seemed content enough to do so, but though it had been _novel_, certainly, he'd never once stopped worrying that she'd quickly change her mind if he moved, despite assurances to the contrary.

Erik, of course, was different from all of Charles' previous experiences; most notably, he was male, and what he seemed to lack in practice he made up for in knowledge. It was also the only time Charles hadn't been able to _know_ what someone was about to do with their mouth, and the _surprise_ of it, of not being able to predict, of not knowing his own taste and texture… It was voyeuristic in a way Charles had never felt, as a voyeur.

It was all… Rather good, really. _Very good,_ Charles thought vaguely. Erik's lips were firm and smooth around Charles' width; his hand pumped and twisted, slick with drool; and within his mouth he lapped and sucked and, now and then, made an involuntary slurping noise that he immediately stifled.

He didn't have to work at it for long. "Erik—" Charles whispered, releasing his grasp on the armrests to shove ineffectively at the other man's shoulders. "I'm going to… _Ah_," Erik's free hand clutched into Charles' thigh, and he coughed a little when the first spurt of come hit the back of his throat; then he shifted a little and was silent as Charles came against the curve of his tongue in time to the pull of Erik's fingers.

Charles hissed at the threat of discomfort, and pushed at Erik again; this time he obeyed, sweeping Charles clean with the pucker of his lips. Erik swallowed, wearing a quizzically introverted expression—evaluating the taste, perhaps? Either way, Charles didn't look to see what he decided to think about it, choosing instead to slouch back in his chair and squeeze shut his eyes to capture that lingering feeling of contentment before it slipped away into exhaustion.

A moment later, he felt the poke of Erik's helmet against his chest as the other man leaned down against him, lying over Charles' bare lap with his body and wrapping his arms around Charles' sides, folded against the chair. Charles realized, suddenly, that his own hands still rested on Erik's shoulders, but he lacked the energy to move them.

Erik flexed his arms, pulling himself closer, and Charles grunted in discomfort, jerking his head up to look down at the man. "Your helmet," Charles reminded him.

"Mm," Erik responded, and pushed himself up onto his elbows. He peered up at Charles' face, but said nothing.

Charles fidgeted a little under the attention, scratching his short nails absently against the bumpy threads of Erik's jacket shoulders. He was very aware that he was still quite naked under the bulk of Erik's body.

Finally, however, Charles had to give in to curiosity. "What?" he asked.

"I'm trying to memorize the way you look," Erik murmured, smoothing the shirt over Charles' ribs with his hands.

Charles felt his eyebrows tip up. "…All right."

Erik seemed to take that as permission to continue staring. Charles turned his head a little; he tried to look at something else, at the wood paneling maybe, but he found his gaze drawn back to Erik's. His irises seemed a deep gray in the gloom, mere rings around his pupils.

Then, one corner of Erik's lips twitched up, and he inhaled suddenly, as if he'd forgotten to. "If I could remember one thing," he said, looking back into Charles' eyes. "Just one thing—it would be this."

Charles frowned at him. "All right," he repeated, doubtfully.

Erik's smile softened, and he settled back down onto Charles' stomach with a sigh. This time he angled his head to the side, so that the horns didn't dig into Charles' skin, and Charles spread his hand over Erik's back in what he supposed was an awkwardly comforting sort of way.

Charles' mind had just begun to wander when Erik spoke again.

"I want you to come with me when I give my speech," Erik said. "I want you to come to Victoria with me. I think you should be there."

"All…" Charles began, and caught himself. "I will," he said instead, pressing his thumb down in along the ridge of Erik's spine. It would, after all, make for a nice change of scenery, and he'd heard from a reliable source that Victoria was nice at this time of year.

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	27. Chapter 27

Sorry this is so late! Life sorta pounced on me early in the semester and I only got to writing this fairly recently. You can trust that I'll definitely see this through, though - this chapter marks the beginning of the end!

That said, I hope you like it. :)

Beta'd by **Tahariel**, patron saint of stealing icing from cakes, and by **KaeKae**, the mischievous imp who makes cowlicks reverse themselves in the night.

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><p>.<p>

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**xcix.**

Charles read over Hannah's notes on how to mix an isoelectric focusing gel and frowned. He understood it immediately, but he'd always trusted his memory to simply absorb whatever he needed to know. This was something he'd learned once, and it seemed to have slipped right through.

Of course, he didn't expect to remember the precise amounts of agar, SDS, and immobilines—not right away, at least; not before it became habit—but forgetting the process entirely, almost forgetting that he'd _done_ it… he supposed that he must have been more distracted than he'd realized.

It occurred to him that it could have been erased from his memory—not to sabotage his research, of course, but as collateral in the erasure of something else. He didn't think that Frost could have done that while he was conscious, but he felt around inside the contours his skull just to be sure.

He found nothing; it seemed he could not blame someone else after all.

Charles turned away from the bench and gestured at Dorian, using the same little two-fingered flick the boy was fond of. Immediately, he straightened up out of his bored slouch and slid off of from his stool to lean down at Charles' side.

"I'm going to show you how to make an electrophoresis gel," Charles told him. He prodded his finger at the page. "Could you help me get the ingredients? The agar's right there but these others are in smaller containers, if I recall correctly."

Charles backed out to peruse the shelves alongside Dorian. "We use this technique to separate different proteins from each other. Or at least, that's the goal. Experiments tend not to work in science…"

Dorian glanced over to him, still silent but wearing a steady, watchful gaze. The shroud around Charles' mind left him unable to know whether it bothered Dorian to have Charles speak to him when he, himself, chose not to respond—but he continued on regardless. The words buzzed eagerly against his teeth.

Charles reached up for a bottle, keeping his eye's from Dorian's. "We've been trying to determine if there's a difference between human and mutant electron transport proteins, which is all very new and hypothetical itself. All we know is that there _are_ proteins in the mitochondrial membrane that somehow… ah, sorry. That's a bit of a tangent, I'm afraid; I'll explain it properly to you another time. Essentially, we think that these proteins might reflect the greater energy needs of mutants, and we can try to separate them by their relative electric charges, if they are in fact different."

Last time the electrophoresis hadn't produced any encouraging results, but that was just the way science went, and a scientist who could be discouraged by a negative test did not remain a scientist for long. It was a good strategy not to expect much to start with, to enjoy the process and be pleasantly surprised if something worked.

Charles had yet to master that technique, however, and it was with unavoidable reverence that he weighed out the ingredients and set the little flask of sugars, immobilines, and water onto the heating plate. There had been so many advances, and so quickly, to the point where it seemed almost like magic—guaranteed to work if the correct sacrifices were made and the right words were spoken. Really, there was more superstition involved in science than most scientists were willing to admit.

"We have to wait until that boils," Charles said, in part to remind himself. "In the meantime, let's get the electrophoresis device set up, shall we?"

Charles attempted to teach Dorian the trick of calculating between concentrations and volume, but this proved to be a greater task than simply writing a formula when it became apparent that his young protégée didn't know how to multiply. From the desperate crease of his brow, Charles suspected that Dorian might not even know how to add.

Dorian was too old, of course, for Charles to blame the Brotherhood, but it was negligence nonetheless; perhaps due to his green skin, if he'd been born with it. It was a shame, if true, even if it had been to protect him.

Charles smiled reassuringly. "No matter. There'll be plenty of time for that, if you want to learn." The noise Dorian made was noncommittal, but he looked speculative, as if he were estimating just how much time they might have to work together. Or so Charles hoped. It was also possible that Dorian had long since tired of his unsolicited professoring.

Then again, Dorian _wasn't_ really his assistant, was he? So it wouldn't be that much of a loss, surely, if they came to dislike each other…

Charles decided to stop with his lessons for the rest of the day to avoid overwhelming Dorian with new information. There was no quicker way to frustrate a new student into giving up, after all.

The proteins had been stored in the freezer before his absence and they were there still, politely overlooked by the biologists crowding the sample boxes to either side. They'd been torn from their cells and mixed with indigo dye, and when he held the pipette tip steady just beneath the buffer surface they fell in a narrow stream down into the gel.

Charles plugged in the electrodes—red for positive, black for negative—switched on the device, and went back to reading as little bubbles of hydrogen and oxygen began to stream up the sides of the glass.

The more he learned about restriction enzymes, the more he thought that he might be able to adjust the process a little, and the outline of a new experiment began to take shape in his mind. If he could figure out a way to sequence the area before and after the gene, instead of clipping into the gene itself… The medical benefit seemed obvious, and while it wasn't strictly his field, it was _right there_…

He emerged from his readings an hour later and was astonished to see that the loading dye was in danger of running off the gel entirely, so he fumbled to switch off the voltmeter. He dipped the tips of his gloved fingers into the buffer and gently tapped the gel off its platform and onto his opposite hand.

Charles let it stream dry before laying it on a tin tray and adding Coomassie dye. The gel was a paler square in the midst of deeper blue as it soaked by the sink, and he turned away to write some notes of his own.

The real problem was that they so far lacked the ability to sequence and identify genes in DNA—more; it appeared that there was some additional step between transcription and translation yet undetectable with their current observation techniques. But perhaps if they could make pieces of the whole thing, and cut the strands into more manageable chunks—they might yet be able to sequence the smaller pieces and match them up in order by their overlapping sequences. Not unlike the process for protein sequencing…

After some time dividing his attention between notes and preparing his gel for visualization, he looked up and realized that everything was ready to go. The gel was beautifully stained, banded with blue, and when he transferred it to a white sheet of plastic…

Charles squeezed shut his eyes and told himself why it had to be a false positive. He wasn't an undergraduate jumping at the slightest possibility of success; not anymore, at least. There wasn't a problem with the gel; no, the bands were _consistently_ different. It would have to be a problem with the proteins themselves; the replicates had each come from the same tube, after all.

One of the tubes might have been contaminated, or degraded. Perhaps one of the samples had been partially digested and one protein was simply bigger and slower than the other. Worse, contaminating bacteria could have somehow picked up the plasmid DNA and mutated it further, or it might have mutated on the culture plate.

He could mix the agar to be less dense and run the test again with the same sample to control for length, and double-check the concentration of SDS. Better, he could get a newer protein sample and run _that_, perhaps against the old samples, if he had the empty lanes to spare.

And if, after all that, the bands still moved to different points on the gel… then he _might_ consider the possibility that humans and mutants had diverged from each other somewhere along the length of a nondescript electron transport protein. It wouldn't be the only difference, certainly, but if it was _true_…

Well, it would be a start.

Charles resolved not to get his hopes up, but it couldn't hurt to be prepared, regardless. The next part of the test was easy enough, but he would have to be ready to go ahead with an Edman degradation or risk losing valuable time while he waited to get a hold of those chemicals.

As he pushed back from the bench, Charles considered calling Dorian over to look. The boy was staring blankly into a rack of test tubes and might have appreciated the interruption. Data, however, were fickle, and that could be a hard truth to learn. Charles was therefore silent as he filled out a requisition form he hoped was up to date.

He'd assumed that the folder stapled to Beast's door would be overflowing with such requests, but it wasn't. There weren't any biologists fighting each other bare-handed for supplies, either, so there had to be _someone_ filling requisitions; hopefully with care, or Beast would have their head. If not… Well, Charles predicted the start of a thriving biochemical black market.

He went to the cell culture room, where he fished a wire rack out from the cupboards under the counter, halted the shaker with a press of a button, and began to sort through the tubes he'd prepared the day prior. Before Charles left with them, however, he paused. His old tubes were laid next to Hannah's, still: taped into an angle to maximize the broth's surface area and oxygen exchange.

To no effect, because these cultures had long since exhausted their nutrients. The bacteria were dying, and they occupied valuable space. There was no reason whatsoever to keep them.

Still, he hesitated a long moment before setting his test tube rack down on the counter beside him. He leaned down to peel the strips of tape from the old culture tubes, reaching past their loose caps to pluck them up carefully by the glass.

That was when he saw it—what appeared to be a small, sealed, two-milliliter vial, submerged in the luria broth of one of his cultures and making a darker shape within the cloud of bacteria.

Charles set aside the rest of his tubes before carrying this last to the sink. He slid the metal sleeve from the top and tipped the broth out. It pooled amidst the stubborn crusts of dirt, stinking of rot, and he tilted the tube further until the vial toppled out onto the palm of his hand.

The odor was pungent, but Charles hardly breathed anyway as he lifted the vial up to his eyes. There were two objects sealed within its narrow glass walls: a folded scrap of paper and something that seemed to be—a snake fang? No, it was a thorn; long and sharp and very slightly curved.

Charles looked around the culture room quickly—he was alone—then sterilized the exterior of the vial with bleach and water. He set it down on the counter just long enough to strip off and discard his gloves. Then he snatched it up again, rolled his hips up on their side, and stuffed both hand and vial through the slit in his lab coat and deep into his trouser pocket.

Then he sat down again, smoothed out his coat, and stretched a fresh pair of gloves on over the stubborn damp of his skin. Charles waved his fingers aimlessly for a moment, eyes roving over the counter until he seized upon the emptied tube and washed that as well. He cleaned the rest after that, leaving the water running to wash away the smell, and hung the tubes on pegs to dry.

Charles picked up his wire rack again, wedging it between the curves of his thighs as he went back to his workroom. When he arrived, Dorian was leaning against the counter. The boy looked up as he came in, then ducked his head again, smiling to himself; Charles saw that he had put together a mixture for the next gel and that it was steaming gently on the hot plate.

"Good," Charles told him, after a moment's pause to steady his voice. "If you keep this up, I might hire you full time."

Dorian's smile went ruefully lopsided, and he turned aside a little. Charles nodded, and set the test tube rack down by the centrifuge. He took a fresh, sterile Pasteur pipette from the drawer and worked a rubber bulb over the top of it, then went about transferring his bacteria into smaller tubes, one after the other.

He had the suspicion that his life was about to become much more complicated.

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**c.**

Dorian stopped before entering Charles' rooms and stood outside to wave farewell. When Charles held up a hand in return, Dorian tipped his fingers in acknowledgement and pulled the door shut with his opposite hand.

As soon as Charles heard the latch fall home, he wheeled himself to the bathroom and searched the drawers until he found a pair of gleaming tweezers. He took these with him when he went into his study, and pushed the door mostly shut behind him. He sat in gloom, evaluating the sliver of daylight sneaking through door and frame until he judged that he would be able to hear and sense the thoughts of anyone who entered his quarters well in time to hide any evidence.

He moved his chair to the desk, switched on the little green lamp, then dug his hand into his pocket and found... _nothing_.

Charles sent his memory racing back along his path, stomach lurching with horror as he tried to think where the vial could have slipped out—if there was some way he could still retrieve it—but before he went back out to try searching the sitting room floor, he patted his trouser leg. His pocket was simply twisted over, the shape of the vial obvious from outside.

Charles took a deep breath and reached into his pocket again, more cautiously. This time his fingertips found glass.

He laid the vial under the warm glow of the lamp and leaned back, staring at its glittering curves without touching it, relishing—just for that moment—how _new_ it was, and how unexpected.

Charles couldn't bear it any longer, so he unscrewed the cap. The paper was wedged in, but he tipped the thorn out onto the desk, where it immediately began to roll for the edge. He stopped it with a slap of his hand, then picked it up, pinching it between his thumb and fingers. The sharp tip dimpled his skin, dragging the ridges of his fingerprints into valleys.

The thorn had been clipped off at its base rather than broken, and it was lightly colored, shading darker at its tip. He couldn't guess what it had come from. An acacia tree, perhaps? He knew almost nothing of botany.

There was a knock at the steel door outside and Charles jumped; the thorn jabbed at his skin but didn't pierce it. He felt with his mind and calmed, settling back down into his chair. It was only Beth, come to bring him lunch.

He pushed the thorn behind the base of the lamp and closed his fingers around the vial. He could hide them from her more… _directly_, of course, but he still wasn't entirely convinced that Frost wasn't watching Beth's mind for just that sort of thing. Anyway, it just wasn't very polite.

He heard her pace around a little, searching for him, until finally she walked to his study door and Charles had a narrow glimpse of her as she rapped on the wood. He folded his hands together—covering the vial twice—and called, "Come in, please."

Beth nudged the door open with her shoulder and brought in a tray loaded with plates and all the paraphernalia of tea. Charles couldn't help but perk up with interest; it'd been a long time since breakfast.

"Not at the window today, Professor?" she asked, lowering the tray carefully to his desk. Aside from the tea, she had also brought him a toasted cheese and tomato sandwich—the rich grease of the hot cheese, he knew, disguised anything that might be lacking with the tomatoes—and a steaming bowl of cream-of-potato soup.

"Not today." Charles pulled the tray toward himself without unwrapping his fingers from the vial. "I thought perhaps I would familiarize myself with my study; I anticipate that I'll likely be spending more time here in the future."

"Is that so," Beth replied, with a polite and insincere interest. "I won't go looking around for you next time, then. Enjoy your lunch."

Charles thanked her, and she left without closing the study door behind her. He waited, fingertips tapping in a line down the handle of his teacup, until he heard her leaving his quarters. Then he went around his desk to the door and pushed it mostly shut again.

He returned to his desk, picked up the tweezers, and deftly inserted them into the tiny mouth of the vial; with a pinch and twist of his fingers, the paper was free. Charles peeled apart the ripped edges of what he suspected had been one of the translucent flyleaves of a medical dictionary, now crossed and darkened by dimples of cramped letters.

It was a note. When Charles smoothed it down over his desk, he read:

"_Don't know if you are ok. Hope you find this. Barely got away, too risky to stay, but can do this at least. Enclosed sample from mutant patient who grows spines from skin. Highly toxic, v. soluble in H2O. Almost instant coma if punctured, death if prolonged exposure. Will dissolve on skin, wash hands after touching or will diffuse through mucus membranes to strong narcotic effect. Dispose in drain._"

Below the main body of the note, squeezed above the bottom edge of the paper, the word "_Good_" had been scratched out, only to be repeated in "_Good luck_." The letter _H_ had smeared into the corner.

Charles slowly re-folded the note, brushing his finger over the soft, cool paper. He looked over to where the thorn rested in the angle between lamp and desk, and felt suddenly cold. He shivered; he could easily have slipped and pierced his skin while he was handling it. He didn't doubt Hannah's warnings; it would be best, he decided, to keep it stored in the vial.

Once the cap was screwed down tightly again, he remembered the scrap of paper still wedged between his fingers. He considered storing it back in the vial, and nearly re-opened it—but the paper, he decided, would only get in the way if he needed to tip out the thorn quickly. It was redundant, now; incriminating; but… The thought of throwing it away didn't sit well with him. So Charles looked through the desk's drawers—largely empty—until he found one where the lining had peeled up, and tucked the note under that.

Charles picked the vial up and stared into it for a moment, forcing himself to remember what he was meant to use it for. He wondered how painful it would be, and frowned. Logically, he knew that someone in the Brotherhood could have planted it, but… He didn't believe that to be true.

He curled his fingers around the vial and replaced it into his trouser pocket. Then he slouched, reached up to rub tiredly at his eyes—and stopped, his fingertips looming large in his vision. It would have been that easy, to poison himself; rubbing his eyes, digging his fingers into that sandwich and the moisture of the bread… Far too easy.

Charles went back to his bathroom, holding his elbows out from his body gingerly as if his hands weren't already occupied, and once he got there he tugged his sleeves back and scoured his skin with rough soap. He rinsed off the suds, turned off the flow of the water—then picked up the soap and ground it into his hands once again. Just to be sure.

Finally, Charles dried his hands off on a towel and returned to the meal in his study, telling himself that it didn't matter if he touched the hand rims with clean fingers, still wishing that he'd thought to turn the wheels directly to avoid the chance.

He tried to eat his sandwich cautiously and wait for symptoms, but it vanished from between his fingers more quickly than he'd planned, along with most of his meal. It was only after he'd eaten, with the rim of his teacup touching his bottom lip, that Charles began to shake.

He had the means. He could end Erik's life. His own little deus ex machina; death, lowered onto the stage from above. Success, when he had already failed. It should have been impossible, and wasn't.

So why wasn't he happy?

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**ci.**

Eventually Charles closed his eyes, exhaled slowly through his nose, and gathered the tattered remnants of his calm around himself. It was nearly time that he went to physical therapy, and the rest of the day still loomed. He would leave the introspection for later. He would… decide what to do. _Later_.

Soon enough, Dorian returned to escort him.

The clinic doors were closed as usual, but Charles paused outside them. Something, he knew, was different—something that he did not sense but nonetheless knew.

Dorian opened one of the doors and Charles went through cautiously, leaving the boy behind him without a word. He saw Badger and understood immediately: she was wearing her uniform again, sitting with her legs dangling off one of the therapy tables. She was no longer wearing her helmet, though Charles still couldn't read her with Dorian blocking his telepathy.

She slid down to the floor as he drew near, and tugged her tunic back down behind her with an annoyed frown. "Thanks to you my life has gotten a whole lot more interesting. I guess you figured out a way to be free of me, eh?"

"…I'm sorry?" Charles asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

The corner of Badger's mouth pulled up in a wry smile. "I won't have time to help you anymore, now. I'll still hound you about those crutches, of course, but you're your own best help now, Chuck."

Charles went still in his chair, trying to remember if he'd considered this possibility. He'd been trying to help, after all; he hadn't thought it might not be welcome.

He drew breath to apologize, but Badger interrupted him with a flick of her hand. "Now, don't start moping. You did what you thought was right, and hell, it might have been. Now, to the matter at hand: I have a proposal for you. We can suffer through one more round of therapy, or I can offer you a beer."

The thought of being bossed around by Badger while she was wearing _that_ outfit was somewhat daunting, but… "It's just past lunch."

Badger arched her eyebrow as if to say: _yeah, and?_

Charles shrugged to himself, giving in. It wasn't as if the world hadn't already ended, after all, and a mid-day beer wouldn't hurt anyone. Besides, was he getting… _old_? He tugged his lip between his teeth and decided that he must be.

Dorian waited outside the door again, but Badger dismissed him with a snapped promise to take over responsibility for Charles. The boy nodded and walked away in the opposite direction, and as Charles followed Badger he felt the fog lift from his mind. He sighed, and held his eyes closed in a long blink; Dorian seemed like a good kid, but it was so much better to be able to feel again.

They reached Badger's office and Charles caught his breath at the stink of cigars. Dazed, he peered around the room at the mess of stacked paperwork and boxes surrounding the desk, which was smaller than his own and pocked here and there with scorch marks.

His eyes came to rest on a hanging calendar decorated with a lithograph of a woman whose most worrying anatomical concerns did not even involve her chest, and he raised his eyebrow.

Badger caught his stare and grimaced. She knocked at the calendar with the side of her fist and it fell from the wall into a box on the floor below. "This used to be Zeus' office."

"Up-to-date calendars must be hard to come by," Charles pointed out. "Are you sure you want to get rid of that?"

The look Badger gave him was venomous. "I can withhold beer, you know."

Charles held up his hands in surrender. "Fair enough. Your office, your beer."

"Damn straight," Badger muttered, bending down over a small wooden crate. She lifted the lid to reveal a spongy layer of dark moss, which she brushed aside. There was snow beneath the moss, interrupted by gleaming caps on stalks of brown glass.

She extracted two of the bottles and tore the cap off one with her stout fingernail before handing it to him. The other she kept in her hand as she navigated around the boxes, watching her feet intently.

Badger eased herself down through the narrow margin between her desk and chair, and popped off the cap of her own bottle. She tipped it into her lips and frowned pensively around its circumference. "At least the booze industry hasn't been hurt much. If that goes, I'm just going to dig a hole in the ground and pull the dirt over myself. When we don't even have enough sugar to rub two yeast cells together—that's when we'll _really_ be in trouble."

Charles hummed noncommittally, and sipped at the beer he'd been given. It tasted strongly of corn, but not terribly. "From the look of this office, it's fortunate that your icebox is well-stocked."

Badger sighed. "Yeah. The lout wasn't half bad at filling out paperwork, but his filing leaves something to be desired."

There had been worse deficiencies in Zeus' character, of course, but Charles was loath to discuss the dead man, especially while surrounded by his possessions. "I'm sorry for putting you through this."

Badger waved her hand dismissively, growling low in her throat while her mouth was otherwise occupied. Then she sat tapping her fingers along the neck of the bottle for a little while. "It's probably a good thing, really. I never thought they'd even consider... Well, it seems like a sign of change for the better. If someone like Marburg had taken the position... God. What a train wreck."

Charles nodded. His brow creased with thought, and his free hand strayed over his leg to trace the shape in his pocket. "Why did you stay?"

"Hmm?" Badger's eyes followed the movement of his hand, too keen, and he stilled his fidgeting quickly.

"I mean, all this time the Brotherhood's kept you around as an example; as a spare in case they get desperate. You're not committed to their ideals enough to remain out of dedication, and you knew they would never reverse your punishment without some extraordinary need. So why stay?" Charles paused, and then asked, "Did you think they might kill you if you left?"

Badger snorted. "Of course they would. That's not the reason, though. Have you even _met_ me, Charles? No, I'm just too stubborn to give in. I'm like my namesake: I just dig in and wait until everyone else gives up. Or at least, I like to think badgers do that. I've never really seen one."

"Is that why they call you Badger?" Charles asked, arching his eyebrow.

"Aside from the fact that I'm short, pissed off, and covered in black and white fur? Probably, yeah." She smiled to herself, twirling her bottle around in a circle. "They called me that before the hair though, too."

Charles leaned forward. "You didn't always look like this? When did your mutation reveal itself, then?"

Badger hid her grin. "Okay then, Professor. I'll admit, I was older than most. I can't tell you if it was all genetics or if something triggered it, though. I've seen that happen sometimes, when latent mutants are put under stress or exposed to things. There was definitely plenty of that going on back when we Americans weren't in Korea."

"Ah, yes. That war you didn't have."

Badger mimed toasting him. "Yeah, I knew something was up when I grew the beard," she continued, gesturing over her face. The arch of Charles' brow steepened, and she lowered the same hand to cross over her heart. "I swear I'm telling the truth. Read my mind if you don't believe me! Beard, mustache, and great bushy eyebrows. And thank god, because if they hadn't sprung up—and if I hadn't been acquainted with some especially discreet and terrified men—I'd be stuck in a clinic changing bandages right now."

"And that's not preferable to being paraded around as the Brotherhood's pet sympathizer, given degrading jobs?"

"You _are_ pretty intolerable, but at the end of the day I'd still rather be somewhere I had a chance of making a difference, even if that chance was small. Anyone can change a bandage, but who else could do what we do?"

Charles grinned reluctantly, tipping his head to one side. "You, certainly; but what use am I? I never trained for politics. I'm a geneticist. I know a lot about Neanderthals and DNA, and that's about it."

Badger rolled her eyes. "Yeah, and I thought the best I'd ever be was a nurse. We are what we are, and our intentions can't change that, no matter how crazy it might seem."

He frowned, and pursed his lips. "That might be the case, but what I am is a political prisoner, for all that we pretend otherwise."

She nodded once, slowly. "True, but it could be much worse. You could be in the tender care of Frost, for instance. At least here, you're treated well."

Charles drew a slow breath, looking down at his knees to where he balanced the edge of the bottle. "You don't know that."

He raised his eyes cautiously to meet Badger's stern, unsmiling regard. "I don't. But it's still better. Better to have _some_ free will than none at all. Better to have the semblance of happiness than none at all. Better to wait until conditions improve."

"No," Charles spoke into the mouth of the bottle. "I'm a coward. I had the chance to take the nobler option and I chose the easier route."

Badger scoffed. "Being noble is overrated."

He turned to look at her, incredulously. "Weren't you just advocating the virtues of stubbornness a few moments ago?"

"Sure," Badger said, shrugging. "There's a time and a place, though, and sometimes... I'm being purely practical now, but sometimes being stubborn is something you do in your head, because if it gets out it might get you killed. Or worse, it might get _other_ people killed."

Charles nodded, but without enthusiasm. Badger sighed. "I'm sorry about whatever hardship you're going though. I must sound like a monster, but… We need you, and we need your crazy ideas. I don't know if the world can handle whatever patience you're keeping locked up in that head of yours, if it got free."

"I can't say I like that advice."

Badger stretched her arms and set her empty bottle on the desk, hiding a scorch mark. "I don't blame you. Hell, I don't know that I'd be any more appreciative, in your place. The world is pretty damn bleak, though, and I think you have a chance here to make it a little less so. That has to mean something."

"I'll keep it in mind," Charles said, and lifted up his own emptied bottle. "Where do you want this?"

"Here." Badger beckoned for it with an outstretched hand. "They give me a discount for returned bottles."

They sat in relative silence for a moment, Charles staring at the little hairs on the back of his hand while Badger bounced the necks of the bottles together.

Eventually the clinking stopped, and Charles spoke in their place. "Thank you for sharing your stock with me, Badger."

She waved her hand irritably. "Any time, any time. Look, just... if you do snap, just give me some warning so I can be well clear of it all, okay?"

Charles smiled brightly, wrinkling the skin around his eyes. "You'll be the first to know."

.

.

.

**cii.**

Charles' mood was far from bright, however, and if Badger kept sending him worried glances as she walked with him, then it was with the understanding that he wouldn't explain further. And if she didn't know exactly how close he really was to making a decision… It was for the best. He trusted her; he did not trust Frost.

Badger left him in his quarters and with an ironic twist her of brow told him that she would see him again soon. Indeed, he had hardly forgotten the sound of the door before it clicked open again and Erik stepped through, freshly shaven and helmet shining in preparation for their daily Brotherhood meeting.

He greeted Charles with a little curl of a smile, which Charles answered with a curt nod before pushing past him and out into the hallway. A hand drifted over his shoulder, and Charles tried to ignore the jump of his heart at even that fleeting contact. He felt Erik's eyes as they traveled through the corridors, but didn't turn to meet his gaze.

In the meeting room Charles took his place at Erik's side, well away from the rest of the Brotherhood cabinet, and he resigned himself to it. Badger was there already and she looked pointedly between him and Erik; they traded raised eyebrows until she shrugged, conceding that it had stopped being her business once the bottles were empty.

The meeting did not go badly. Little had changed overnight, but the Minister of Scientific Research had returned with a proposal to line retention ponds with bricks of limestone to leach the acid from the water; a temporary solution to a larger problem, but still an improvement.

Colossus hadn't been deterred from attending, and argued fiercely for implementing incentives for mutants to pursue lines of work suited to their abilities, as well as for regulations requiring worker sleeping arrangements to be both individual and raised off the ground. He received little argument, especially after he interrupted one naysayer to explain with brutally rehearsed efficiency that disease cost more than sanitation.

Badger had pieced together some information from Zeus' scattered paperwork and collaborated with the geologists, combining the seismic data from several monitoring locations into a rough map suggesting that the mutant responsible for raising the volcanism in the Atlantic might be hiding somewhere in Iowa.

Beside him, Erik lifted his chin up over his laced fingers; a subtle gesture, but an important one. "Where is this?" he asked, voice smooth with an artificial calm. "She must be killed before she can do any more damage."

Unspoken went the fact that most of North America's food came from the Midwest, which was still largely unspoiled by radiation, fire, and plague; in part due to its remoteness and low population density, but also largely because of Brotherhood strategy. Razing the fields was an excellent way to cripple an enemy, but not in a region one meant to occupy.

Badger held up a hand-inked page, whose details were barely visible from their seats. "Our geologists have narrowed her location down to a fifty-mile radius, confirmed by several eye-witness accounts. But before we do _anything_ aggressive, I'm drafting aid teams to the region with instructions to learn the area and gather information. We can't afford to surprise each other like last time."

Erik's eyes narrowed in consideration. "Very well. Do that, but inform me the moment they return with any relevant information. The _very_ moment."

"Yes, sir," Badger agreed, relaxing back into her chair and crossing one knee over the other.

All in all, no one got stabbed or even really threatened and there were some tentative improvements by the end of the meeting, so Charles was in a fairly pleasant mood on the way back through the corridors, all things considered. Beside him, Erik almost hummed with pleasure.

Erik shut them into Charles' rooms. When he turned around, a closed-lipped smile had carved deep into his cheeks. "That went well. You're a good influence on my people."

Charles watched Erik closely, studying the way his face moved as he spoke. There was a light there, an energy; dangerous but _alive_, almost more than Charles had ever seen in Erik since before his isolation in Canada. "Perhaps your people only needed less influence." His delicate emphasis of that last word implied just what sort of influence he meant.

Erik's eyes shone within their creases as he ignored the accusation. "That said, I'd rather hoped that you might join me at the podium during my speech tomorrow. The two of us together would present a more unified front."

He didn't need to mention that Charles' mere residence with the Brotherhood, let alone his involvement, was still a matter of state secrecy. The resistance, Charles knew, believed him to be a martyr; emerging as a political ally to Magneto, even for something he did in truth champion… it wasn't the sort of decision to be made lightly.

Then again, what did he have to lose? Erik was right; it would send a powerful message, one way or another. He would not oppose peace, but neither would he necessarily discourage a revolt, if it happened quickly and neatly enough.

"All right," Charles said, and Erik relaxed, easing into a prowl as he circled around behind the chair. His arms draped over Charles' shoulders and his weight settled there.

"I don't know about you," Erik murmured, nuzzling into Charles' hair, "but I'm enjoying this new, cooperative Charles."

Charles had inclined his head to give Erik's nose more room to peruse his scalp, but now he froze. Erik lowered his mouth to Charles' neck to soothe him with soft kisses and low, wordless hums of encouragement. His hand slid up Charles' front, pulling his suit jacket into bunches along the way, and his lips curved to the bumps of Charles' spine.

Charles closed his eyes as teeth scraped over his vertebrae. The gloved hand on his chest reached his throat and pushed up at his chin until his eyelids shone red with light. Only weeks ago Erik had scolded him for shuttering himself away, but now he said nothing, seeming to accept that Charles was his whether or not he kept his eyes open.

It was freeing, in a way, to be so owned. Charles drifted, far from the shape in his pocket and far from the hands and mouth that roamed his body. It was a nice place, in the red behind his eyelids; it was nice to give up responsibility for feeling.

It was an illusion, of course, and it came to an end when Erik's hand on his cheek turned his head, pressing the back of his ear to Erik's lips. "I have a gift for you."

Charles thought of the subtle weight around his neck. The collar, he realized, was thrumming gently against his chest; some low frequency of desire, subtle and nearly indistinguishable from the buzz of his own skin. He turned to look at Erik, whose eyes were dark and uncomplicated; he looked as if he might start purring himself, if he could, but he lacked that spark of amusement that would have told Charles he was doing it intentionally.

Charles reminded himself that the necklace had never been a gift; that it had always been a shackle. In fact, he could not remember a single time that Erik had given him anything, and he was torn between curiosity and apprehension.

"What is it?" Charles asked, striving for the former.

Erik didn't break eye contact as he reached down into his jacket pocket, and Charles was gripped by a sudden and striking conviction that Erik held a twin to his vial; or worse, that he might have somehow taken the vial from Charles' pocket—that he was about to present it as evidence and then laugh in his face over the joke.

Charles held his breath, and couldn't help but cringe when Erik lifted his hand—but it was only a wrinkled tin tube, capped with white plastic and scoured of all identifying color. In Erik's palm it looked almost unreal, like a sculpture, and Charles furrowed his brow as if solving a riddle.

"It's surgical gel," Erik told him, his eyes fixed to the tin. "It's sterile, and won't promote bacterial growth." Charles' brows creased further as several unpleasant applications flashed through his imagination, and Erik added, "I thought it might be a more comfortable alternative to saliva or lotion."

Charles couldn't help it; he laughed, quietly but no less helplessly, until Erik's eyebrows had tipped up in the center, concerned despite the tentative curve of his mouth. And really, Charles had no idea whether he should in fact be grateful. The gel would be better, he was sure, but… well, he'd kind of hoped that maybe Erik wouldn't notice that they were having sex, but it seemed that he had.

He reached out and took the tube from Erik, turning it over in his hand. It was warm from being in Erik's jacket.

"Thank you." Charles' mouth felt dry. The humor in the situation was fading rapidly, and the air around them felt very close and hot. One of Erik's arms was wrapped around Charles, almost pinning him down into the chair, and Charles struggled to breathe.

"Actually, could you put this in the end table drawer?" Charles asked. "I think I'd really like to go for a walk outside, if you don't mind." He offered the gel back to Erik.

Erik didn't move, didn't even blink, and Charles' heart hammered in his chest—_you promised to give him _everything—but then Erik swayed just the smallest bit, glanced down at Charles' open hand, and touched his fingertips to Charles' palm. He took the gel and stood with it.

"Of course." Erik followed the tilt of his hips toward the end table. He twisted to look over his shoulder at Charles as he opened the drawer. "Shall we go into the courtyard?"

Charles exhaled slowly. "I'd rather hoped I could see the forest again."

Erik's face relaxed into a greater stillness; something like relief. "You should have warmer clothing this time"

It had not escaped Charles' attention that, despite the rows of pristine outfits hanging in his closet, he didn't have a single winter coat. The implication had been clear. "You'll need to find me something."

Erik inclined his head, accepting the point. "You can borrow one of mine," he offered, pushing the drawer closed with his knuckles. "We'll stop by my quarters on the way."

Charles' curiosity got the best of him, and he sat a little straighter. Of course, he knew that Erik slept _somewhere_, but he couldn't help but imagine Erik as being like a cat, prowling around his mansion until he found a warm spot to watch everyone from. The idea of him having some private place to call his own was mystifying in its obviousness.

"Just so long as it's not red," Charles said. "It doesn't go well with my skin tone, I'm afraid."

The corners of Erik's mouth curled, and he turned around fully to roam his eyes over Charles' body. "No, I think not. Although I rather like the thought of you in blue…"

Charles coughed into his hand and looked away before glancing back, cheeks warm. Erik was still smiling, and somewhat wickedly at that, so Charles composed himself quickly and gestured an invitation toward the door. "Well. Shall we, then?"

Erik's eyes glittered with fond mockery as he walked past Charles. He made no gesture to open the door, but it swung forward nonetheless.

Much to Charles' surprise, Erik turned down the hall in a direction he had never seen _anyone_ turn before, down to the shorter end of the corridor. His confusion grew as he pushed at the hand rims of his chair, following Erik past the few doors along the way to the end, until that confusion popped into an understanding: Erik was his neighbor.

They reached the door at the end of the hall and Charles twisted in his seat. He could see the guard outside his own quarters, close enough that they could have caught each other's eye, had that other man been looking.

He turned back as Erik waved open his door, wondering why he was surprised. After all, _someone_ had to be living behind the other doors, and he'd heard signs of their occupancy despite the truly remarkable soundproofing. It made a sort of sense that Erik would want him nearby, given his general… possessiveness.

Then he caught a glimpse of Erik's quarters and Charles stopped wondering whether he could blame his terrible collection of books on a previous tenant. His eyes widened to catalogue every detail while Erik was distracted with the coat rack, only…

There was nothing. Well, there were a few chairs, and the aforementioned coat rack. There was a plain, slightly threadbare rug spread over the floor, and a little table pushed against the wall in a way that was uncomfortably off-center. Erik's sitting room wasn't _empty_, by any means; it was just barren. Charles had expected to see at least one grandiose oil painting of Erik in his cape and helmet, but the room was only a room, and it was hard to imagine that _anyone_ lived there, let alone any particular person.

Erik's hips chose that moment to sway into the path of Charles' stare, and his eyes widened. For a long, uncomfortable second, he found himself trapped in contemplation of Erik's trouser placket. There was something interesting about the way the dark fabric wrinkled between Erik's legs, and the longer he stared, the more Charles became certain that it really had very little to do with his legs at all—

Charles jerked his chin aside, glanced up to where the walls met the ceiling, and didn't quite cross his legs as he cursed the hormones that streamed through his brain. Then he included the rest of chemistry for good measure, and didn't look down again until he heard the rustle of Erik offering his coat.

He was pleased to see that it really wasn't red. Instead it was gray, smooth and stuffed with something soft, and Charles snatched it from Erik's grasp to have something to do with his hands aside folding them over his lap.

When Charles pulled it around his shoulders, however, it engulfed him in the duel scents of musk and sweat. He paused, half a sleeve dangling off his arm, blinking dazedly as his brain halted all thought in favor of basking in an odor that ought to have been and utterly failed to be disgusting.

Charles swallowed thickly and flipped the coat's edges up over his shoulders, reasoning that once he stopped moving it around, it would stop wafting quite so many stray molecules into the air. The sleeves fell below his wrists, creeping back down despite his best efforts to push them up, and he shoved his lingering awareness of Erik's scent into the back of his mind by force of will.

He looked up at Erik, who replied with a gentle twist of his lips and then began to walk.

He led the way in silence, striding with a smooth and confident swagger, but as they turned through the corridors his shoulders became carelessly stooped and his head tipped forward to shift his gaze to the floor. Charles watched with fascination as Erik slipped into the posture of habit, and knew without being told that Erik had walked this path many times before, guiding himself by granite tiles.

After navigating a small stairwell they reached a narrow door, which Erik pushed open. A small square of concrete lay illuminated on the ground outside, and Erik squeezed out of the way as Charles passed him, easing his chair down from the mansion's floor to the ground.

Cold condensed in Charles' throat and his lungs hitched in protest. Blindly, he groped for the zipper of Erik's borrowed coat and pulled at it, peering into the dark around him. The air was filled with a strangely shining haze, and he found himself in a sphere of gold cast by the solitary electric lamp on the wall behind him. Beyond, all was ink and darkness.

He exhaled to watch his breath escape, and leaned over to look down at the ground. Frost clung to the rough edges of the concrete, and on those few ghostly blades of grass included in the light. The fog, evaporated unseen from the snow during the day, had frozen in the sudden cold of night. Miniscule particles of ice drifted through the air, alighting gratefully on the warmth of his cheek.

Charles shivered, and tugged his hands back up into his sleeves.

He heard the soft sound of a door easing shut and saw that Erik had stepped out to join him. Unlike Charles, Erik did not seem to feel the cold, but only watched him from within the shadow of the helmet.

"Are you warm enough?" Erik asked, his voice a caress through the fog.

Charles bundled the loose folds of the coat more tightly around himself and nodded. The cold kept the scent at bay, but it crept in at the edges. In the light and heat of the hallway it had been stifling, but now Charles found it almost… soothing. It was a memory of warmth, in its way.

"Let's go," Charles said, mostly to himself, and lowered his arms down to the rims of his wheels. The bundles of his coat fell loose, letting in a draft. He slipped his fingers free of their sleeves to get a better grip on the chair, and he wished that he had asked for gloves. He wondered, briefly, whether he could stand to ask for Erik's, but he decided that he wasn't quite that desperate yet.

He left the little bubble of light around the door and found himself in blackness. Charles slowed, easing his fingers along until dim shapes emerged from the shadows. Unlike the last time they had gone through the woods the path was not lit and the moon was a mere crescent in the sky, but he could guess at a paler snake of gravel, and he trusted that Erik would stop him if he were in any real danger. It helped his trust that this time he wasn't calculating the likelihood of Erik murdering him.

The world came into slow focus around him. He smelled the pine trees before he saw them, but most of the trunks crowding close were deciduous. Leaves rustled under his wheels where they had blown over the gravel path, which was otherwise surprisingly well maintained. Snow hid in patches beneath the trees like gaps where the world had been forgotten, and though there was little moonlight and less starlight, the frozen mist spread about an eerie glow. A faint rustle of wool was the only hint Charles had of the shadow following him, and though he knew they weren't alone in the forest, it seemed to his senses as if they were.

The low branch of a spruce hung near the path, its needles limned with white, and Charles stopped. He lifted his hand and brushed his fingertips over the ice, breaking the filaments onto his skin. He held them in his hand to watch them melt, shivering stubbornly.

Behind him, Erik reached forward to touch his fingers to Charles', crushing the delicate ice beneath an incautious fingertip. He drew back, tracing the melting ice where it had stuck to his glove—gentle too late.

Charles looked back at the branch and its ice, now felt and known, its emergent mystery shattered irrevocably. He broke more crystals from it, letting them flake to the ground, and he heard Erik brushing his hand off on his thigh. A moment later that hand found Charles' shoulder, fingertips nestling in the hollow of his clavicle through the coat.

Charles thought of the vial in his pocket, too small to even really feel, especially not when his thighs were already going numb. "Why me?" The words were no more than a rasp of his throat.

"Hm?" Erik rubbed his thumb into the back of his neck, and Charles leaned forward to expose more of his back in invitation. Not because he was tense, but rather because Charles hoped to set _Erik_ at ease: Erik seemed to resort to threats of violence when he felt pressured to explain himself, but perhaps if he felt in control then Charles might have some hope of getting answers out of him peacefully. Answers were important, now.

"I've been in your mind," Charles said, as Erik's other hand joined the other in kneading slowly between his shoulders. "Despite what I said, I didn't actually know everything about you—"

"You lied?" Erik sounded amused.

Charles twitched his shoulderblades under Erik's fingers. "…I exaggerated in the interest of the greater good. As I was saying: I didn't know everything, but I never got the sense that you were, well…"

"Homosexual?" Erik said it lightly, without offense, and Charles freed the air held hostage in his lungs.

"Yes." Charles tucked his hands into the coat as stillness stole his heat. "So I was very surprised, back then, when you kissed me. It's very hard to surprise a telepath, you know."

"I hadn't realized I'd hid it so well." Erik's hands slowed to a stop, fingertips resting along the ridge of Charles' scapula, and there was no wind to rattle the barren branches above.

Finally, Erik said, "I had thought you were being generous. By not saying anything."

"I didn't know."

Charles heard the soft huff of Erik's laugh. "I'm not, you know. Homosexual. I never really… not for men _or_ women. I've had sex, of course, but it was only an action. There was no desire." His hands lifted away and he touched his fingertips to Charles' temples. Gently, lightly, he smoothed them down through the hair in front of Charles' ears, and then down over his sideburns until his fingers fell from Charles' jaw and alighted again on his shoulders.

"I'd never noticed anyone," Erik continued. "Not until you. In some ways, you were the first person I saw in years. It didn't matter that you were a man, because in my mind you were beautiful."

Charles said nothing for a while, sitting still with Erik's hands framing his neck, the man himself out of sight behind him. He looked down the path, now clearly visible to his eyes, to where the fog clung thickest. "…I see."

"I didn't expect you to feel the same," Erik said, so quietly that Charles strained to hear him. But Charles didn't have an answer for him, so Erik's hands slipped from his shoulders and he stepped in a smooth arc around the chair. His cape drifted around his ankles as he walked down the path, and Charles followed.

The fog around them grew denser as they went, and Charles realized with some trepidation that they were going down an incline. He didn't relish the thought of climbing up it again; his arms were stronger from compensating for the crutches, when he remembered to use them, but they were stronger in different places. Mansion life did not encourage muscle.

Without turning, Erik spoke. "I walk this path to clear my heads some nights. More since you came along; so you see, it's only fitting that you're here now." He glanced back and Charles saw his nose in profile, and the glitter of the fog in his eyes. "For the record, I do think that your plan could be successful." He faced ahead once more and added, "I haven't looked forward to the future in a long time, but now I want to know what happens tomorrow."

"Hopefully it's not me doing something embarrassing on camera," Charles said, and he caught sight of Erik's face again as he flashed a smirk at Charles.

"No," Erik assured him, and kept walking.

Soon they reached a place where the path broadened out and the trees drew back around them, and they stopped because there was nowhere farther to walk. Charles drew a sharp breath, eyes wide with attention as he stared around the valley.

A meadow of fallen grasses spread out below them, crisp and sparkling with frost. A layer of drifting ice hung low above it, heavy in the air but too light to fall, shining in the thin light of the moon behind its shadow. The trees opposite stood tall and dark, pierced here and there by the sharp crown of a conifer, and the rounded crests of mountains framed the sky.

Charles touched his hand to his mouth and felt where his lips had curved into a breathless smile. He lowered his arm and self-consciously pressed his lips down over his teeth, but could not rid himself of the expression entirely.

Erik's fingers slipped between his where they lay on the armrest, and Charles felt the rough callus of his skin, still warm from the glove he'd stripped off. He didn't look down, but let his own fingers wrap around Erik's. Inside he felt fragile, like the frost on the branch, and he was afraid to move lest something shatter.

Beside him Erik glowed with soft amusement, and squeezed his palm. "This weather is weeks too early."

"Yes," Charles agreed, voice too loud in his ears. "But it is very lovely all the same."

.

.

.

.

.

_**tbc**_


End file.
